


The Case of the Dress Up Murders

by darkphoenixreal (phoenixreal)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Forced Crossdressing, Forced Feminization, Gender Confusion, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock Fluff, Kidnapping Sherlock, M/M, Male Slash, Non-Consensual Drug Use, On Hiatus, Past Child Abuse, Past Drug Addiction, Past Sexual Abuse, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Romance, Sherlock's Past, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-04
Updated: 2014-01-04
Packaged: 2018-01-07 12:11:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 32,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1119678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/darkphoenixreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lestrade's team is working a case involving a serial rapist/murderer that targets adolescent boys. Sherlock, of course, is on the case. He is brought in on the third crime scene much to Donavan and Anderson's annoyance. As he's leaving alone, he and Sally are shot with some sort of dart and disappear. Sherlock finds himself locked up in a basement with Sally, drugged on opiates. Sally, though, is clearheaded. Soon, their captor reveals himself to be the man they are already hunting. Confused, he informs Sherlock that he targets those who have a past of sexual abuse as children, and that according to a certain consulting criminal, Sherlock fits his requirements of that and being "unspoiled" since.</p><p>He uses Sally as Leverage to get a very high Sherlock to cooperate as he reveals what he has planned, to dress Sherlock as he had the others he's murdered, and have a nice tea party. Sally manages to escape, only to be recaptured and both are moved. Now, Lestrade and team have to deal with uncovering the secrets of Sherlock's past, and trying to find him before his captor tires of him and kills him like he has killed his other "dolls".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dolls

**Author's Note:**

> This is SUPER OLD and needs editing. 
> 
> On Hiatus at the end of first story arc. Will be adding five chapters later on after revisions.
> 
> I am currently editing. Donovan's name is misspelled, my spellchecker decided autocorrecting Holmes to Holms was a great idea, and I have Anderson's first name as Mike when it should be Phillip. No idea why I got it in my head that his name was Mike. I swear, I thought it was in the show. 
> 
> Once editing is done, I will begin posting the second part of the story, chapters 6-10. If there is anything you would like to see, comment and let me know. I have not written the next part, but there will be another baddie, and John and Sherlock working on their relationship together.
> 
> Disclaimer: Don't own, don't make money.
> 
> Warnings: Graphic non-con, torture, emotional manipulation, graphic mentions of past child abuse/non-con. Please heed tags and such.
> 
> The doll dress is here: albu_252292951_00-1.0x0/2013-two-piece-squre-neck-long-sleeves-unique. jpg (remove spaces)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/8: Edited! Yay!

eople like Anderson and Donovan were sure they knew Sherlock Holmes. They were very sure he didn't have a heart and that he only got a thrill out of coming to murder scenes. And this one was perhaps one of the worst kind. It was a string of children between eleven and thirteen who had been raped, abused severely, and murdered, each one left in a room that was decorated like a tea party inside abandoned buildings all over London. They were missing a week, and about the time they discovered the body, another child would be reported missing. They had hit their third scene in three weeks, and if the pattern held true, the next week would show another death. So far no new missing children had been reported, but they had to act fast. And of course, today, Lestrade had called in their resident freak. He'd visited the others scenes, after the bodies had been removed, but of course the freak wanted to see one before the body was taken to the morgue. She sighed deeply and waited for the inevitable.

Before long, a black cab came up and let out Sherlock, and immediately they noticed that he was without his tail of the doctor. He wrapped his coat a bit tighter and walked toward the tape, going through by Donovan. She wondered why he always seemed to gravitate toward her even though she gave him no reason to remotely com in her direction.

"Hello, freak, how are you? Got one that'll really get you off tonight, huh? Where's John?" she asked, not letting anything but heat seep into her voice. John at least was _normal_.

"At a conference in Wales," he said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm interested in catching a serial killer, not your droll conversation."

She sneered after him. He ignored her and went into the scene. A few moments later, he'd informed them to test the tea for the rapidly denaturing poison that was contained it in for the cause of death, had determined that the killer had been molested, possibly sexually assaulted, as a child, now collected Victorian dolls, dressed his male victims like the dolls that he had, and sewed the clothing himself by hand. He himself had a mother that wanted a daughter instead of a son. A DNA sample should be attainable in the seaming of the dresses he put the boys in, because no one that sewed by hand could avoid pricking their finger now and then. He lived above or within a doll shop, and could be certain to have the clothing of the children he'd killed still in his possession. He told Lestrade he'd figure out where he lived quickly for Lestrade.

He stepped out into the air outside and breathed in deeply. It was a cold night, and the case, though grisly, had been easy enough for him to put together. They really should have called after the first murder. While it was true he didn't have the killer in hand, he was confident he'd make his way to his flat within a short time. After all, how many doll shops could there be in London? Still, though, there was something tickling at the back of the mind, as though there was something he was missing, something right in front of him…

Sally was the last one left outside, the crime scene had been taped off, and no one seemed too interested once the cars with the lights flashing had left. Lestrade, Anderson and the small forensics team were all that were left. Anderson had gone around the back to check on the back entrance when Sherlock showed up.

"Enjoy yourself, freak?" Sally asked with another sneer at the consulting detective. He fixed her with a glare.

"I've solved your case, isn't that enough for you? Now, if you do not mind, I shall go actually catch your criminal, doing your job," he said and went to walk off. He flinched, then and reached up and pulled a tiny dart from his neck. He turned and stared at her, his eyes crossing, and he slumped to the ground. Sally frowned and felt a sting herself, and found the world spinning around her violently as she fell just as hard.

"Where's Donovan?" Anderson shouted into the building the others were inside of. Sally had been on duty outside.

Lestrade looked up. "She should be right there. She was standing out there at the tape."

Both went out and looked around. Lestrade felt a crunch under his boot. He reached down and picked up a metal dart. He looked over and saw another one glinting on the sidewalk beside an all too familiar blue scarf.

"I think we've got a problem," Lestrade said, pulling out his cellphone and texting madly.

-Somewhere Else-

Sally blinked, her dark eyes opening slowly and sluggishly. She thought for a moment that perhaps she drank too much the night before, but no…she was at a crime scene. It was dark, but there was a little light streaming in from a high window that was frosted nearly opaque. She felt handcuffs around her wrists and felt she was secured to a pole of some sort. She looked over to her side and saw that she wasn't alone. She sighed. Of all the people to get kidnapped with, she had to get kidnapped with the freak. He was still out, head dropped, dark curls falling over his face. She couldn't see what she was personally secured to, but it seemed to be pipes or columns of some sort running down in the basement.

There was a bang and Sherlock sat up straight suddenly, blinking and looking around him. He barely noticed her as a rotund man came toward them. He had a huge grin on his face. He was balding, the top of his head quite shiny. His hair that remained was dark brown. A pair of square framed glasses perched on his pudgy and pockmarked nose. He wore a decent suit, navy blue, but it was rumpled quite a bit. Sally assumed from dragging them around unconscious since he didn't have accomplices.

"Sorry for the accommodations, sergeant," he said, smiling at Sally as though it was the most normal day in the world.

"What have you taken us for?" she said, trying to at least figure out why she was here.

"He's the one we were after, the one that killed those three children," Sherlock said, and she looked to see he was still groggy. That was strange, she was clearheaded. He should have cleared whatever was used before she did. She watched the balding man carefully as he crouched between Sherlock's legs with a grin.

"Of course, dear Sherlock. I knew you'd realize who I was right away, but do you have any idea why I've brought you here? You know, you remind me of my dolls? I saw you at the first crime scene, the next day, you know, and I thought, my, my, what a pretty boy is he," he said, tilting Sherlock's head upward, finger digging painfully into the soft flesh under his chin. "Not too witty today, are you? Oh, I doubt that. Here, time to give you a bit more, don't want you deducing your way out now do we?"

He pulled a syringe from his pocked and popped the cap, jabbing it into Sherlock's leg in one fluid movement, getting a gasp from the man under him. "There we go. Now you can't do a terrible lot of thinking, now can you?"

Sherlock lifted his head and frowned. "Wha…Wha you want with her?" he finally managed.

He smiled at him. "Oh it was a matter of convenience. You are notoriously hard to control, I hear from a certain consulting criminal. He gave me the most excellent idea of holding an extra hostage to get you more…agreeable. I was going to take your dear John, but he wasn't with you, so I settled for her."

Sally couldn't help herself; she gave a derisive snort. "You could have picked someone better, we hate each other," she said with a roll of her eyes.

"Ah, is that true, Sherlock?" he asked, lifting his head slowly. "Do you hate her?"

Sherlock's jaw worked. "Leave me alone," he said finally, though it came out sound a bit like lemmalone.

"Oh, no, you've got a tea party to come to, Sherlock. You won't break like my other dolls, now will you?" he said, holding his face upward and petting it gently. "I've got a perfect outfit in mind for you, has lovely short dark curls, just like you, yes…"

Sherlock tried to extract his head from the grip and muttered, "Goway," sluggishly. "Leggo…"

"I'm afraid not, Sherlock. I've got a lovely time planned for us. So right now, let's stand up here, I'll need your measurements to complete the look I have planned," he said, pulling a tape from one pocket and a small notepad and golf pencil from another.

Sherlock shook his head, refusing to stand when he was pulled. "Now, now, if you throw a tantrum, your not-friend here gets to suffer. Is that what you want? I don't like my little ones to throw tantrums, it makes me very upset."

He moved over toward Sally and Sherlock's slumped posture moved to watch. "See, until we have our tea party, I can't play with you, but I can play with her…" he said, pulling a knife from a holster at his back and tracing the blade on her neck. She sucked in a breath. Well, she'd die here. No way the freak was going to do what he wanted.

"Stop," he muttered, almost too low for him to hear. The man turned back to him, but Sally caught the almost manic gin on his face.

"What was that? Are you going to cooperate?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded. He moved back to him and roughly yanked him to his feet. "First, this has to go…" he said, taking his knife and ripping down the sleeves of the shirt Sherlock was wearing. Sally realized his coat was crumpled the floor beside him, leaving him in a blue long sleeved button up shirt. The shirt fell away. She frowned at him. The man was skinny. She could see his ribs. She remembered something about John and Lestrade saying that he forgot to eat sometimes for days on end, and refused to eat when on a case. At the time, she had thought it was merely attention seeking behavior.

"Sherlock, you don't take care of yourself, look at this…" the man said running hands over Sherlock's sides. "Are you anorexic or something?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just stared upward. "Oh my," he said. "And what's this?" he said, running hands down Sherlock's bare arms. "You cut, don't you? That's a surprise, even M didn't know about this…"

At that, Sally's head did snap around and stare. She could see the lines of perfectly straight lines running from his shoulder down the sides of his arms. There weren't any fresh ones that she could see, but there were lots in different stages of scarring. Some were pink and relatively recent. She noted they stopped a couple inches below the inside of his elbow, but she saw two wide, thick cuts nearer to his wrists. The man ran fingers over the deeper scars and smiled.

"Hum, let's see about here too?" he said and she saw him flinch as the man undid the belt and dropped his black trousers to the floor. She saw the distinct marks of fresh cuts across the top of his thighs under the hem of his black boxers. Lines followed down to the just above his knees in various stages of healing. Well, that answered the question of what kind of underwear he wore. "You hide it now, don't you? I bet your doctor friend would be very disappointed if he saw this, wouldn't he?"

"He thinks I stopped," he muttered, almost sadly. Sally couldn't believe the emotion that was belied in those simple words. The man ran his hands over the scabs and scars, fingers lingering on the inner part of his legs enough that she caught the shaking in Sherlock's bound hands.

"Why, Dolly?" the man said softly.

"Hum…" Sherlock said, looking away. He wasn't going to dignify him with an answer when he wouldn't even speak of it with his John.

"Dolly, now, now, remember what happens if you don't cooperate, your not-friend is going to gain my attention…" he said, and Sally was amazed that Sherlock's hazy eyes locked onto her again. She, for the first time, saw emotion flitting there. Emotion that she was sure that this freak, this man, didn't have.

"Forget and feel," he muttered, turning his eyes away from her and staring upward again.

"Forget what?" he continued, running his hands over the wounds along his legs still, and Sally could tell that Sherlock was trying to put it completely out of his mind, and failing, either from shock or from whatever drug had been injected.

"Mem'ries," he slurred. "Forget them."

"Oh, my what kind of memories, little one?" he purred, hands stroking the taller man's sides against the ribs softly.

"No…" he said softly. "Don't…"

"Yes, little one, you'll tell me, or I'll take my knife and carve your not-friend with it," he said, and Sally saw his hands gripping Sherlock's biceps and squeezing enough that she saw redness blooming around his hands.

Sherlock swallowed, thinking if it was just this psychotic bastard, it would be different, but he wasn't alone. He turned his head to look at Sally, hoping to find her looking away, but no, she was staring.

"M'father, okay…f'get 'im. Wanna f'get, your case 'minded me of 'im, so I did it," he said finally, head rolling to look the other way.

The man ghosted hands over Sherlock's face then, bringing his face to stare at him. "And why do you want to forget him? And why on earth would my case of all things remind you of your father?"

Sherlock shook his head out of the grip. "Stop, lock'd up this, don bring it out, p-please…" he was begging. Sally's eyes widened. "Deleted it, tried, keeps comin' back, don't…"

"No, no, remember what happens, little Doll?" he gestured toward Sally.

"F-fine…he hurt us…th-then he left and it was me…alone…so he hurt me…" he said quietly, words still slightly slurred and stammered.

"How?" he whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"P-please…not this…I don't…" he begged. "I can't…"

"Oh you can, M said you would do just fine. Now, what did he do, little one? Did he hit you? Did he beat you? Did he starve you? Or did he touch you? Or did he do what I did to my other little dolls? Did he love you that much?"

Sherlock shivered violently. "No, stoppit…" he slurred, but he held up the silver knife and Sherlock's eyes danced and followed it. "Aight! Yes, all of it, just stop!" he begged, and Sally was taken completely back, her mind reeling at the victims they'd found. All had been beaten severely, all raped, and all looked perfectly fine when they were found.

The man seemed satisfied by his victim's state of distress and Sally watched with disgust as the man took his time taking Sherlock's measurements, wrapping the tape around his waist, hips, each thigh, chest, arms, everything seemed to take twice as long as it should as the man's hands lingered against the pale skin. And good lord was the man pale. Sally had to wonder if the man ever went outside without the bloody coat on. Finally he was done and he stepped back and smiled, leaving him to slide down to the ground still clad in his boxers. He kicked away the trousers where they'd fallen and smiled down at Sherlock again. Sally realized his shoes were sitting with his coat between them. He stared upward as he tried to move his legs to a more comfortable spot. He then took off and the door banged closed again.

She wasn't sure what to do. She worked at the cuffs but there was no way she could pull her hands free, and with the freak drugged up like he was… He faded in and out of consciousness from what she could tell, occasionally muttering something, but it was barely coherent. After a couple hours he sat up suddenly.

"I have the worst headache," he muttered, rolling his head around on his shoulders. "Dammit Mycroft…where the hell are you when I actually need you?"

"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked.

He started and glanced over, blinking, as if realizing for the first time he wasn't alone. "Oh, it wasn't in my head, wonderful, you really are here," he said sighing, and banging his head into the pole behind him.

"Who's Mycroft?" Sally asked again, louder, ignoring his statement completely.

"My overprotective and interfering older brother who usually has a tail on me whether I like it or not, except of course, today he would choose to call his men off," Sherlock said with a sigh. "Not sure why, he already knows John is out of town, so normally he'd have at least one care tailing me and one at the flat. Bastard. I'll send him a whole cake when I get out of here," he said, looking around. His eyes weren't as quick as Sally knew they should be, he was obviously still drugged, but at least coherent.

"How does he do that?" Sally asked, not really understanding and honestly surprised that Sherlock had a brother. And he was interfering and overprotective. Wasn't that the strangest thing?

He snorted. "He _doesn't_ work for the British government. Last time I listened to him I wound up in Buckingham Palace in a sheet. If he'd put his endless funds onto something besides following me around…stupid British government."

Sally was a little confused. "Where is he now?"

"Off taking over some small country, probably," Sherlock huffed and sighed. "Otherwise I wouldn't be stuck here; he'd already have come in on his white horse. He loves to do that when he thinks I can't handle things myself. Usually he's wrong. But of course, this is the one time I _do_ need him and he's nowhere to be found. And he wonders why I tell him to bugger off the rest of the time."

Sally smiled though. "Sounds like any other older brother to me."

Sherlock fixed her with a glare. "You have no idea. Though I guess in his own way, he thinks he's making up for things…" he said leaning his head against the thick pipe behind him. "He thinks he could have done something about the drugs and he could not. I made that choice, nothing was going to stop me."

Sally blinked. Obviously, whatever the bastard gave him was making him chatty and honest. "You know what he's giving you don't you? That's why you're not asleep anymore."

"Oh yes, between the coke and the heroine I used to shoot, this is not that strong. Medical grade narcotics. Doesn't work so well on me. Going to have to detox again after I get out of this, if I live of course. I hate detox. Goddamn Mycroft dragging me there."

Sally couldn't resist. She'd always wondered. "Why'd you start drugs, Sherlock?"

There was a long pause and she wondered if he was going to answer. "Too much. First the boarding school, then uni. No one likes a freak, too many of them to deal with it. Drugs made it hurt less when they yelled and hit. Needed oblivion…found it in a needle. Blanks the entire brain for me, stops the synapses, pauses the working, and that never happens otherwise. Can't shut it off, y'know? Just keeps going, never stopping, swirling with information I can't fucking delete."

There was a bang and they both looked up. The rotund man returned. "What is this? You should have been out of it for another couple hours at least, Dolly."

Sherlock sneered. "I'm most certainly not your 'Dolly'. Who are you and what are we doing here?" he demanded, attempting to project strength into a voice that was quite bereft of it. "Basement, obviously, and…hey!"

Before he could get anything out, the strange man had plunged another syringe full of something into his thigh muscle. "He warned me you used to use, my but you have quite the resistance to opiates, don't you? I'll have to double your dosage, Dolly."

"Not your Dolly," he muttered, his head starting to spin.

"No, shh, you will be. I'm half done with your lovely outfit, sweetheart. Now, now, just relax until we have our little tea party. But don't worry; I plan to keep you for a while. Now that I got my perfect Dolly. Those others don't compare to you. I was worried when he suggested it, since I'm fond of little ones. But he was right, so very right. You're so much better. Pretty as a picture, smooth, and a little grooming, you'll be just like one of the little ones. I'll be down to divest you of this nasty stuff," he said, running a hand down his chest and plucking at the sparse hairs on him. His hand dipped down into his boxers making him jump. "Oh yes, that has to go…"

"Stop that," he muttered, frowning as he squirmed away from the hand. "Stoppit!" he tried, but his words were becoming more slurred as the drugs began to slow down his head.

The man stood back up. "Yes, yes, I'll be back to deal with that. Can't have that on you, now can I? No, dolls are nice and smooth with pretty porcelain skin. I'll get some covers for those scars on your legs. Can't have them show!"

Sally was starting to worry now. They'd been there hours, more than six by now, and she was beginning to worry about food and water. She didn't fancy dying of thirst or hunger in a dirty basement with some psycho child rapist and murderer who apparently decided that the freak, of all people, was what he wanted. If he liked children, why was he going after Sherlock? It didn't make any sense.

Once he was gone she turned back to him. "Sherlock!" she called, using his name for perhaps one of the few times ever in her life.

He turned a bleary eyed look over to him. "Sherlock, how can we get out of this?"

She wondered if he understood him but he shook his head. "Can't tell…no info."

"Sherlock, focus! If anyone can figure this out, you can! If we don't, you're going to end up like those kids!" she said. She wasn't sure why that bothered her. How could she feel like this about him? She thought, for some reason, seeing him in such a situation would give her joy. Instead…

He blinked owlishly at her for a moment. "Can't think. Got time. Didn't kill right away. Spent a week with each victim. Cuffs?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I can't slip them."

He glanced to his coat between them. "Lock picks," he said glancing at his coat and she understood.

"In your coat? A set of lock picks?" she asked and he nodded to her, trying to turn around, pushing one leg sluggishly toward it, trying to push it closer to her. As he turned, she could see the extent of the cuts across both his legs now. The precision with which they were applied was impressive, equidistant apart and apparently the exact same depth. She could tell they went further up under the hem of his shorts when he shifted.

"Sleeve, right side…in cuff…" he mumbled, forcing the coat toward her with his toes a few inches.

She reached out with her own foot and snagged the material and inched it closer to her until she thought she could get to it with her bound hands. "Got it," she said.

"Missed it," he mumbled. "Can't…believe I missed it…" Then he giggled almost hysterically for a second and was quiet, head starting to loll forward.

She flipped around and yanked the coat in, moving along the seams until she managed to get to the arm. Of course, the first one she found was the left one. She huffed in frustration but managed to query what he meant. "What did you miss, Sherlock? Stay with me. You work best when you're thinking. Tell me what you missed. You are always talking ideas out loud. Don't pass out on me, okay?"

He turned toward her and blinked again, eyes unfocused. "The victims…" he muttered. "They were all…molested by their…fathers…he…works at the school…nurse…" he said softly. "Moriarty…damn him…put him on me…he found out. Dunno how…how'd he find out? Father and Mycroft removed the records…they're gone…he purged the files. All the hospital records…they're gone. Moriarty had them…" he was rambling now, his eyes rolling and hazy. "How did he get the records? When they took me away that night…the police were there, but he paid them off, I know he did…no one would know…not Mycroft Holmes' little brother…oh no we can't let anyone find out something happened to him, can we? People talk, I know, musta been the first responders, someone talked and they talked to Moriarty, dammit! Why can't they keep their mouths shut…makes me remember…" Sherlock paused, breathing heavily and Sally swore he was on the edge of hyperventilating.

"Sherlock!" Sally called, getting him to focus on her. "Calm down!"

He stared for a minute then closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing. "Happens when I'm like this…started drugs to forget, y'know…shut down m'brain, moves too fast, far too fast sumtims…but scary, so damn scary to not be able to _think_ right after so long…"

She continued working with the bloody coat. How had she managed to work around to the bottom instead of the top? She groaned in frustration, but heard the bang of the door. She turned forward, dragging the coat and dropping it behind her back.

The guy seemed far too happy as he skipped down toward them pulling a metal table with him that rattled across the floor. She stared because he was skipping; pulling the table at a quick pace, excited by what he was going to do. And she just thought about how weird this situation got as he hummed under his breath as he got closer. How…strange. This guy was insane.

He undid Sherlock's cuffs and quickly snapped them onto the table, then pulled another set and secured the other side. He picked up a bowl, and she realized it was a bowl of hot wax. He smiled as he tipped the bowl over Sherlock's chest and the detective gasped at the hot wax contacted his chest and stomach. He thought for a moment then he divested his victim of his boxers, dropping them beside him on the floor, and even though Sally couldn't see what he was doing, she knew all too well as Sherlock practically popped his wrist out of place as he yelled then.

"Wha…stop…" he begged, and she heard the pain in his voice.

"There, there, Dolly, let that set for a moment, I'll go get the second pot for your back, had to keep it warm, and the electric doesn't work down here," he said smiling and leaving again.

Sally heard him breathing heavily, but all she could see was the top of his head and his hands as he wriggled them against the cuffs. She heard another clink and realized he must have cuffed his ankles before he left. She was back on the coat though, because damn it all, she'd lost the sleeve when she'd dropped it, but finally she felt the distinct hardness of something inside the seam. Carefully she worked it out, dropping one of the picks into her open palm as soon as she could. But the door was opening again. He came back over and tapped on the wax that was rapidly drying on Sherlock's chest, humming.

There was a clink and Sherlock was flipped onto his stomach, groaning as his arms crossed over each other in an obviously painful manor. Then he yelped again as he continued coating him with the wax. This time, he went ahead and covered his arms as well. He stood back.

"Such a lovely thing. You don't find many boys your age unspoiled. Maybe that's why I never found a lovely doll that was older. I only desire that which no one has touched, you know, well, no one that someone else has touched with their permission, lovely. Not your fault what people do to you against your will. Imagine my surprise when M let me know that my infatuation was well placed, and that you fit my desires! Never thought I'd find such in a grown man, but I'm happy I did... And I have to make sure," he said. "Please, tell me, little Dolly, are you indeed a virgin like he said you were? Never touched, by man or woman? Or…even yourself? Except of course what I know of, because that's why you're here, since daddy dearest was so fond of you…"

"Wha ya mean…" he mumbled into his arms. "Dunno what you mean."

"Tell me, or I'll do something not nice to your not-friend over there."

His eyes turned back to her and he gulped. "Yes, never, too m-many m-mem'ries."

He clapped his hands briefly before flipping the detective over with a little more force than necessary. "Goody! I had it on good authority that M was good for his word but I just thought I'd check. Good thing too, I really didn't want to shoot you both before I had our tea party. And I don't honestly have another friend lined up after you…M thought you'd entertain me for several weeks at least…won't that be fun? Then I don't have to worry about being caught when I steal the other little ones!"

Then he started to pull the wax off Sherlock's body with great ripping sounds as the sparse hairs on his chest and stomach left on it. Sally cringed. She had her eyebrows and lip waxed now and then. But she'd never gone and got a full Brazilian or anything. He let out a loud yelp when he got down to the thick pubic hairs. Sally squirmed, imagining how much that had to hurt. The guy hadn't even bothered to shave the hair down before he dumped he wax over him. She'd never had it done, but knew enough friends that had bikini waxes, and it hurt like hell. Before long, the man stood back, dropping his last bit of wax into the trash can, leaving Sherlock breathless. She had to give him credit, he didn't scream.

"Not bad, here, let's finish up," he said, reaching into a bag and removing a razor, again flipping him when he needed to do so. She heard his breath harsher now than before. "That wasn't as bad as I thought, I've only had to wax one of my toys, the oldest one, and it was just a little. I thought a grown man would have more to do…but you're quite smooth already. You do make a perfect replacement for a child. You should be proud, Sherlock, really, you're saving at least two or three lives, because I would have had at least two or three more before you caught me. Now I've got a lovely one all to myself."

"Prat," she heard Sherlock say, breathless.

He smiled and looked at him. "Daddy, call me Daddy, there little Dolly."

Sherlock huffed, and she looked up, still able to see his hands crossed at the elbows probably, head resting on them, his dark curls showing above them. Suddenly his head shot up and he squeaked. She could only see the top of his forehead from her position, though, and his hands were splayed wide, jerking against the cuffs.

"Now what was that?" he said, and Sally was pretty sure she didn't want to know what he was doing. "Do you want me to take this over and play with your not-friend?"

She heard him gulp. "N-no…" he said softly.

"Now what are you going to call me, Dolly?" he said, and Sally winced as a low keen escaped him. "Come on, or I'm going to give you a cut to remember me by, and then I'll cut her throat for you to watch. It hurts so much more when I turn it the other way…"

"D-dad-d-dy," he stuttered finally and then his head dropped with a sigh onto his crossed arms, and he moved where she could see him dragging the silver knife's handle up his spine.

"Perfect! Now, I'll go get the under-layer of the lovely outfit I have for you," he said with a smile, running from the area, leaving him breathing heavily with his face in the table.

"Sherlock!" she called again, not sure what else to do as she was attempting to work with the cuffs. "Come on, say something, you have to have some witty retort about how stupid this guy is!"

His silence spoke volumes more than anything he could have said. What this guy was doing, it was so much more than just what he'd done to the other three boys he'd taken. No, he was using those murders to get to Sherlock specifically, and this M, or Moriarty, as Sherlock said, had something to do with it all. Her stomach growled and she realized that far more than six hours must have passed while she was out, because it felt more like twelve. She looked up; the light from the window was fading. It had been night time when they'd been at the crime scene. Shit, she thought. A day at least.

Sally worked at the cuffs diligently but didn't have time to finish as he came back too quickly. He held an armload of clothes and a doll. He held up the doll, a faceless doll with short, curly dark hair. It wore a Victorian dress of black lace and red satin.

"See there, isn't that just like you, Dolly?" he asked, smiling at him.

He unhooked the cuffs on his ankles, and she saw him try to kick out, only to be caught easily as a set of black ruffled pants were slipped onto his body. The insane man was humming now as he put socks and petticoats on him. Done with the lower half he unhooked him from the table, pulling him off and pushed him toward his previous position, pushing him down to the floor and pulling a black lacy camisole over his head. Sherlock frowned and started to pick at the ruffled mess in his lap. A moment later, both his hands were cuffed behind the pipe again, leaving him blinking as the man took off again.

"Sick fuck," Sally heard Sherlock mutter and she laughed out loud. She'd never heard him cuss before, at least not like that, and she couldn't help it in the situation.

"You got that right, Sherlock," she said. "I know if you weren't drugged to the gills you'd have us out of here, wouldn't you? Even if you don't like me."

He looked over and she swore she saw sincere emotion in his eyes. "Don' hate ya, ever'one hates me, s'okay, m'usta it."

She paused, thinking about that. He was used to being scorned. Before it had driven him to drugs…but now… She cursed under her breath as she fiddled with the cuffs blind. It was so much harder when she wasn't looking. But then the door banged again and she sighed in frustration.

"Shh," he said, rolling his eyes over to her. "He'll take me up, get out…call Greg…get help…go left at the stair, door's there…" he said, trying not to slur as the man came back with a black lace and red satin dress identical to that which the doll was wearing as it lay beside Sherlock's now black socked foot.

The man removed the cuffs completely now and pulled him forward, sliding the dress over his head and shifting it down. It fit absolutely perfectly, and if Sherlock were smaller, he would have looked exactly like a little girl the way his large eyes were dilated especially from the drugs. He held him standing by the shoulders.

"Now, there's a good Dolly. You behave, when we're done, I'll let your friend go, okay? No fighting, okay? We'll have tea and cakes and a lot of fun…okay? Just like a good little Dolly."

Sherlock nodded slowly, brain so sluggish he could hardly put two words together. Then he looked at his arm to feel another pinch as he injected him again. Dully, he wondered how long before the dosages triggered an overdose. He'd had one of those. They were not something he wished to repeat. He looked up at him. "Just in case, you shake off the effects quickly. Wouldn't want you running off in the middle of our tea party, you know? You'll have to sit in Daddy's lap after all, and I can't have you getting up and falling down and hurt your pretty little self." He half drug, half pulled him out of Sally's line of sight.

She waited a moment and then tackled the cuffs with fervor when she heard the door bang closed. She seriously doubted he had any intents of letting her go at all, not if she was leverage to get Sherlock to behave well. And no matter how amused she should be at the fact the freak had been dressed up like some sort of living doll, she found herself frantic to get him out. He'd shown obvious care about what was happening to her despite them having no relationship to speak of that should have meant he would risk anything for her. Yet, he had backed down every time he threatened to harm her. This wasn't the freak she knew. Not at all. Maybe she didn't know him at all.

The cuffs fell away and she jumped to her feet and then found the door to be locked from the other side. Of course, and it was the only exit. She went back and grabbed Sherlock's coat and worked out the remaining lock picks and set about picking the door as silently and quickly as she could. When it was done she debated doing what he asked and trying to take him out on her own. No, the safer route was to call for help. Who knew if he had accomplices and he might just stab Sherlock the moment she came into the room. Her gun was gone, and she had no access to other weapons. She rifled Sherlock's pockets and found his cellphone. She turned left and slipped out the door into a large open lot. She hid herself beside the steps and dialed Lestrade's number.

It rang a couple times, and Greg's voice came on the line.

"Sherlock?" he said, panicked. She heard John's voice in the background.

"No, look, help, the doll guy, he has Sherlock, and he's planning on…" there was a brilliant flash of bright white light in her vision and the world suddenly had every bit of color sucked out of it.


	2. Search

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1/8: Edited!

On the other end of the line, they heard the thump of a body. Then a noise and a new voice. "That wasn't very nice of her; after all, she is just leverage. But now, I guess I have to invite her to my tea party as well. Do you think she likes to watch tea parties? I mean, mine are much more entertaining than anyone else's I would guess." The voice was confident, and there was a surety to it that could only come from someone totally insane.

"Who are you and what do you want with Sherlock and Sally?" John yelled at the mobile that was on a tracking device sitting on Lestrade's desk.

"Why, you should be proud of him. Because of him, there won't be any more murdered lovelies because he won't break so quick. M assured me he'd last at least three weeks. So I tend to have my fun. Though I guess Sally here won't be able to leave my observation this time. My fault for leaving her alone when I took my Dolly to his first tea party. She is a police officer, I suppose. Definitely should have expected it. I could drug her like my Dolly, but you know, maybe it would be more fun if she could watch everything. And feel the pain. Maybe. She…he does look so lovely with those dark curls and big eyes…such fun to dress up! And twice as much to undress…"

The line went dead, leaving the three in the room, Lestrade, John, and Anderson blinking in surprise. John had his phone out already, texting Mycroft. He was out of the country last John knew, but he knew this would bring him back. Right now, they needed Mycroft's uncanny ability to locate people.

John turned to Lestrade. "All right, first off, we have to figure out why a man who is a serial rapist and murderer would suddenly change from young boys to someone Sherlock's age. There is no reason for that that I can fathom, otherwise I would have thought about the case earlier. He mentioned M, my guess is that Moriarty is involved in this, the guy from the pool explosion. Anderson, come on, you've got a brain, you may hate Sherlock, but you should want to find Sally. Get all the files for the three victims. We have to find what links them. Sherlock came up with the profile, and given time, no doubt found the killer, but now, we've got to rescue him before he ends up dead."

John was always impressive when his military side came out in force. Even Lestrade seemed somewhat taken aback by the authority and control he exerted around him as he spoke. In short order, the table was covered with the files of the three boys.

"We know that serial perpetrators pick their victims based on something that connects them. We had assumed it was age, but since he's taken Sherlock, that's not the case. What else is common between Sherlock and the other three victims?" John said, somehow pulling everything he'd ever learned from being with Sherlock to the surface. It was amazing after a couple years with the arrogant bastard how much rubbed off.

Anderson looked up. "All three of the boys lived with a divorced mother, two had remarried, one had not."

John looked up. "Good, what age when the divorces happened?"

Anderson skimmed it again. "Six, seven, and nine. But the freak…er Sherlock's parents weren't divorced."

"Something else then, something Moriarty found out and gave to him…" he muttered, looking over the files.

The door opened and he looked up to see the umbrella wielding Mycroft standing there with two suited men remaining outside. "John, it may be what is not in Sherlock's file that connects him to the case. But unless there is reason, I cannot reveal information. So pray, continue, and I'll inform you if something about the other three children coincides with information about my brother. And no, our parents were not divorced."

Anderson frowned and looked up at Mycroft. "Who the hell are you?"

Lestrade put a hand up. "Phillip Anderson, this is Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother."

"Didn't know the freak had an older brother," he muttered, going back to the files, but his arm was gripped tightly by Lestrade and he looked up to see the warning in his DI's eyes. He took one glance at Mycroft who sat twirling the umbrella and glaring through slitted eyes at Anderson. He glanced back to Lestrade and nodded, not needing to be told that it was not a good idea to put down Sherlock in front of his brother.

"Let's see, it says that there were filed charges against two of the fathers," Lestrade said. "And a restraining order against a different pair of them. All filed by the mothers before they were divorced from the fathers. There is a note about sealed child services records on all three…wait…"

John looked up. "So all three of them had an intervention through child services…and the records are sealed. That could be abuse, neglect…several things. I don't know of any connection to Sherlock there, but who knows what has been scrubbed from his files," John said, looking at Mycroft who was studying a point on the ceiling. John knew he was taking in everything about the room and what they said like a recorder. John was again amazed by the elder Holmes brother. A mind as sharp as Sherlock's but with the charisma of a politician… Not for the first time he wondered which of the brothers was actually more intelligent.

"Anderson, call the caseworkers listed, see if they'll give you any information," John said. Anderson grabbed all three papers and headed out to another office.

"What else have we got?" John asked.

"All three go to the same school…all three have recent accidents during gym…wait. Someone at the school would have best access to students, and if they're all three…" Lestrade began.

John nodded. "Still doesn't connect Sherlock. But if Moriarty is involved, we can assume that somehow he fits the profile of this psycho and Moriarty is the one to tell him so, since he didn't have access to any records. So that means that whatever connects them is something that these three kids told someone about, something not generally known…"

Lestrade frowned. "I noticed this before, all three recently moved here, within the last six months, from different areas. So they would have been adjusting to a new school. That makes them vulnerable, few friends to confide in, fewer teachers they trust to talk to yet."

"So, we know so far that the boys were all injured, all had something they told a trusted source in the school…wait…the nurse's office. What if it was the nurse? We know that it is a male, and that there is a DNA trace we're still running from the dress on the last boy, so how hard is it to find out if there is a male on nursing staff at their school?" John said, sitting up suddenly.

Moments later, they had the information. There was one man on staff at their school in the nurses' offices, and he rotated between grades. He was a short, pudgy man who spoke very little, and often ignored the other staff. His name was Jaffrey Dalton. And according to the head nurse for the school, he was a little odd, but strangely good with the kids. And he missed work every week the day after one of the kidnappings took place, including this day.

Anderson walked in, looking slightly pale. "What is it?" John asked.

"All three boys were taken in by child services after an anonymous report of child sexual assault and molestation. The charges were filed, and shortly after, they were put in sole custody of the mothers, their fathers charged. None were jailed, probation, but all were restricted in their access to children and added to the register. I don't know how we missed that. Fr…er Sherlock said that the perp had been molested, but he didn't mention the kids."

"He may have known already. Sometimes he files information away in his head and waits to see if it is proven true or not, as you know, Greg," he said with a sideways glance to the DI.

The room was quiet and considering this was the only thread they had, John turned an eye to Mycroft who sighed deeply.

"I believe you've found your commonality, then," he said quietly. "You'll find no records; I've purged all the hospital files as well as child services and police reports. What was left after our father paid off everyone he could. Obviously, Moriarty was able to find someone who had been involved when my brother was removed from the home briefly before money and position won out. I'm sure father bought off every individual that knew of the situation, but time loosens lips, especially now that he's dead," Mycroft said clinically.

John blinked. "You're telling me your family bought off everyone so no one would find out your father…" he stammered. "And where were you? I thought you took care of him!"

Mycroft sighed, glancing down. "I was away at Uni. I didn't know until Mummy called me in a panic telling me he was hurt and was afraid to take him to the hospital out of fear of what Father would do. I told her to take him anyway, and of course, he was ten at the time, so child services immediately stepped in. Terribly hard to make up excuses for a boy who's obviously been beaten and… He spent a week in the hospital, and then another week in care of child services before Mummy could convince them she would not return to the mansion with him. Divorce was not possible, in this case. That's when I put him and her up in the flat in London until Father died, I'd already gained enough connections to secure it for them. Then, she returned to the mansion."

Mycroft looked distant. "That's why I wasn't surprised when he went to Uni and turned to drugs. The slightest indication of anyone coming close to him set him off after that. Even you know how he hates to touch anyone or anything without gloves. Or hates to be touched. He never lost the slight hapnaphobia after the assault. You can't imagine how hard it was on Mummy, having a ten year old that she couldn't even pick up. He pulled away, locked it away in his mind palace, along with everything not essential. I tried, desperately, to get him to come out of the shell he built himself. As you've seen, John, it doesn't work too well. He pushes me away, and refuses even to visit Mummy. He says seeing her makes the walls shake, and he won't have those things come back to him. He utterly refuses to come near the mansion, and hasn't been back since the day she took him to the hospital."

A pin could have dropped in the room. Mycroft sighed and stood. "Other than that, the only other connection with your victims is a lack of sexual activity, other than the obvious childhood trauma. Sherlock, since then, has refused all romantic entanglements and become asexual in nature, referring to sexuality as a 'bother' and 'non-essential'. Refusal of touch is in particular one thing that makes intimacy difficult. It became a part of him that he simply didn't touch or allow anyone to touch him. I tried to send him to therapists, dragged him there on occasion, especially around the time of his drug problems, he tended to put them in such a state they called me saying if I ever sent him back, they were going to move from the country. I instead simply kept an eye on him."

John nodded. "And the cutting? When did that start?" Mycroft frowned and looked surprised. "I've seen his arms, Mycroft. We do live in the same flat."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, after the drugs, it was the cutting. Sorry, I just assumed you knew about it, John. You know more about him than I do these days. Which, unfortunately isn't very hard to do. I'm not sure he's ever really stopped."

John nodded. He wasn't stupid. He knew what an addiction self-harming was. And he wasn't blind to the times Sherlock would disappear for hours into his room or the bathroom for a shower. But without proof, he couldn't push the issue, and he'd never indicated there was anything wrong with his arms, and John had made sure to check now and then, in a hopefully inconspicuous way. But he blinked, feeling entirely stupid all of a sudden.

"I know his arms are scarred but he hasn't had fresh cuts in a long time… Dammit. I never checked his legs or sides," he said softly. Mycroft nodded slowly, sadness coming over his eyes.

Lestrade frowned, "His legs and sides?"

John sighed deeply. "People that cut, often times when they've been 'caught' they appear to stop, to appease everyone. But a lot of times, they move location. From the arms to the legs, from the extremities, to the torso, places harder to be caught cutting. Stress exacerbates the need. My guess is that's how he deals with cases. Especially this one…" he said, thinking. "Actually, come to think of it, just after the first crime scene, I found a bloody washcloth. I asked him, he said he'd cut himself when he was doing one of his experiments. I don't remember seeing any bandages."

"You're telling me that the…er Sherlock actually _cares_ about the victims of his cases?" Anderson asked incredulously.

John sighs. "Of course he does. Why do you think he goes days on end without sleeping or eating just to solve a case? He can't rest until he's done, and says eating slows his thinking down."

"DI Lestrade?" came a voice from the door, a detective looking warily between the two suited men and into the room.

"Yes?" he asked.

"There's an old lady here, Mrs. Hudson? Says she needs to see you or John Watson about Sherlock…" he said softly.

"Show her in," he said, standing up.

"Who's Mrs. Hudson?" Anderson said softly.

"Oh, John!" came the high pitched worry voice of the landlady.

"What are you doing here, Mrs. Hudson?" John said, coming closer. "I told you I'd tell you when we found out where Sherlock went."

"I know, I know, but I found this on the doorstep," she said, handing an envelope to John with his name written in elegant script. There was a folded note attached.

"Dear John, Thought you'd enjoy a little extra reading material, JM," he read out loud. "Dammit, it is from Moriarty."

Mrs. Hudson frowned. "Isn't that the man who blew you and Sherlock up?"

"Yes, yes, it is…" he said, opening the envelope and nearly dropping the contents. "Oh my God," he muttered.

Lestrade frowned. "Wait, is that a copy of all the missing files? How…" he said, taking it.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth, lifting up a group of pictures, obviously from when Sherlock was admitted to the hospital, taken by children's service. Mycroft's eyes were wide.

"I had everything destroyed. How could this even be here…" he said, taking the pictures, still amazed at the state his little brother had been in.

"It's another not from him. 'In case you're wondering, some good Samaritan decided to take copies of the files when she found out they were to be shredded the next day. JM.' Well that explains how this exists," John said with a sigh. It looked like the complete file from children's services. "My bet is on whoever his caseworker was. So why'd she give it to Moriarty?" John mused.

"I remember her, Cheryl, I think," Mycroft said. "I remember how she looked when she came into the hospital room the first night. I think if Father had been there, the lady may have gone to jail on her own…"

John made a choked sound. "Wait, if this guy, this Jaffrey, has this…what's it going to do to Sherlock if he actually shows him this stuff?"

Mycroft stood stiffly. "I'm not sure, I'm really not. He refused to talk about it, even then, completely avoidant about it. If I brought it up, he stormed off, you know how he is. Refused for the longest time to acknowledge our father had done anything. Then he just referred to it as the 'bad time', and that was it."

"Mr. Holmes!" came a call from the doorway, and another suit stood there.

"Yes?" he answered.

"We've traced the mobile signal. We're already en route."

"Fine, transmit the information to DI Lestrade, we'll meet the team there," he said, nodding.

They were off, before long standing in front of a large abandoned house surrounded by a large lot. It was outside the city, and a little secluded. As they approached, they saw the abandoned phone by the step, Sherlock's phone, as well as brick with wet blood on one side. They entered, and found a completely empty house. However, they knew they had the right place. The dining room was dressed as the other scenes had been. Fine china tea set, several Victorian style dolls. The living room had the remains of red satin, black lace, and black silk fabrics strewn around a chair. Sitting in the chair was a Victorian doll in a dress made of those exact materials. John swallowed thickly because the hair on the doll was identical to Sherlock's thick, dark curls, but the doll was faceless.

"He doesn't need the doll anymore," he said quietly, looking around the room again.

"Basement," called Anderson.

Lestrade and John went down and they found it dimly lit, and near the two poles in the center were all of Sherlock's clothes as well as several sets of handcuffs. He saw a table where more handcuffs were hooked and frowned, then glanced into a trash bin and looked away.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked and looked. "You've got to be kidding me…"

"His preference is for dolls and boys, Greg, you can't be surprised," Mycroft said, hands at his back and looking into the discarded wax and a couple disposable razors. "Waxing is the most efficient method of removing hair from the human body and the method that takes the longest for the hair to grow back other than laser removal," he added, arching brows at the DI. Beside the table were a couple of wax bowls that were often used at spas. John was sure the heating unit for them would be upstairs.

Anderson flinched back. "Good God, that had to hurt…it…her waxed everything by the looks."

"Good thing Sherlock wasn't too hairy," Lestrade said softly. All, however cringed at the thought of having their lower regions waxed. That just…ow.

"Sir!" came a voice from up the stairs. "There's something else up here!"

"Anderson, get your team, bag all the evidence, I want to know if we can figure anything else out from what he's left behind," Lestrade said, heading up, followed by John and Mycroft.

"Mycroft, you didn't know he'd left already?" John asked as they headed back to the living room.

"There aren't any security cameras or traffic cameras close enough to this place. I wonder if Moriarty warned Sherlock of the fact that I often use them," he said thoughtfully. He sighed. "I'll leave a detail with you, I've got to go back. Let me know if you find anything."

John looked for a moment. "We both know you will already know before I can send you a message," he said dryly. Mycroft merely nodded and left.

"What have you got, Lestrade?" he asked, coming into the room.

Lestrade handed him a note, John cleared his throat and read out loud. "Okay, it says: 'Good job, but too late. I liked this place too. No nosy neighbors in case my pretty is a screamer. He probably is, I can tell, you know. However the nice sergeant messed things up for me, but Doll didn't want me to punish her, so I agreed. Of course, I'll have to punish someone. I guess we'll deal with that later. Don't bother looking at the school, I won't be returning there, or any property connected with my family. So many empty buildings and warehouses in and around London. And yes, I know of Dolly's brother and his penchant for using cameras, so plan on us avoiding them. I've left a little picture to remind you of your friend, though I doubt he remembers having it taken. I might have given him a little too much this time, but he's quite resistant to opiates. Doesn't he look darling! I'll take good care of him, like a good daddy should, and I'll be so much better to him than his real daddy was! See, I've already treated him to keeping his not-friend alive! Would his sad excuse for a daddy have done that? No, I don't think so! I'll be what he needs, and I'll treat him so much better, you'll see. And this time, he won't leave me like the others, he'll stay, and he'll be mine. Because if he tries to leave, he'll end up like my broken dolls. And I really don't want to break him. He's a lovely doll…' Oh, my God, this guy is completely insane."

John picked up the instant photo and swallowed. "Wow, if I didn't know this was Sherlock…I mean, I saw the pictures of what he did to the other boys, but still…"

Sherlock was dressed identically to the doll that sat in the chair. The picture had been taken with him sitting in that same chair instead of the doll. The dress was obviously hand made for him, just like the dress on the doll sitting in the chair now. Red satin over black lace, with a set of petticoats in black, and a pair of ruffled bloomers most likely made from the silk they found scraps of. He'd put a pair of black socks and black Victorian shoes on him. The sleeves were long tiered with lace, to flare down on his wrists. There was a large black bow on the chest, and a high collar with black lace down the front. Sherlock was awake, but he was obviously heavily drugged, his eyes wide and almost black with the pupils completely blown. His jaw was slack and he sagged against the chair he was in. If it weren't for the mop of dark hair on top of his head, John would have no idea he was looking at his flatmate and friend.

Anderson cleared his throat, having just caught what was said as he came upstairs. "What makes someone do this? I mean, really? The guy is a pedophile to start with, kidnaps boys, dresses them like girls, and treats them like dolls?"

"I think we need to find out," Lestrade said. "Pack up everything, dust everything, and then get back to run tests. We need to find them, fast. This man is unstable at best. Having to move locations before he was finished could be extremely detrimental to Sherlock's safety."

Before long, they were back at Lestrade's office, a large file open on the table for one Jaffrey Dalton.

"Okay, he's forty six years old, employed for the last ten years at the school as an assistant nurse, lives above a dollmaker's shop, damned if he wasn't right about that, and sometimes goes down to help with the dolls on his days off. Parents were divorced when he was fifteen, father was an alcoholic, mother was abused by the father. Mother collected Victorian dolls, and dressed him up like them as a young boy." Lestrade arched a brow and looked at the group. "Well, that explains the obsession with the dolls."

"Says here that she had always wanted a girl, and until he started school, everyone who knew them thought he was a girl. When school started, they forbid her dressing him as a girl. At home, though, she continued to sew and dress him up. When he was about ten, father comes home drunk, thinks he's his wife, beats and rapes him badly enough to send him to the hospital. Mother claims he was attacked by a mugger. Repeats again several times until he runs away and gets taken into the foster system. Mother refuses to leave her husband until he's fifteen when father dies of an overdose on prescription narcotics, then Jaffrey returns to live with her. School describes him as gender confused, going between wearing women's and men's clothes, and seemingly not bothered by what others consider 'normal' behavior. Goes on to become a nurse, living his life mostly as a female, until the last couple of years, when he decided to 'give living as a man' a try. Coincidentally, he is around the same age now that his father was when he was assaulted," Lestrade said, heaving a heavy sigh.

John nodded. "Yeah, he's totally insane. Only explanation. So he's basically reenacting what happened to him as a child because it gives him control over what happened to him. He tried with boys the age he was, but found it not satisfying, or they were too fragile since he said he 'broke' them, and decided to find someone who was older and would still submit to him the way he wanted to when he echoed their childhood trauma…"

Both Anderson and Lestrade looked at him. "What?"

"I think you've been hanging around Sherlock too long, it's rubbing off," Lestrade said finally.

John shrugged, "Bound to happen. As long as I don't start insulting everyone, I'm good."

"Okay, but we still have to find them," Anderson said. "And the longer we wait, the more likely he is to just get rid of Sally. We're pretty sure that he's not going to kill Sherlock, especially not if he's as drugged up as we think he is," he said, pointing to the picture and an evidence bag full of emptied syringes. "He's been using fentanyl on him, relatively high dosages. Honestly, if he hadn't been addicted to opiates before, he wouldn't be conscious."

John pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled nosily. "Okay, he's going to be messed up when we get him out. It's bad enough to be on the lookout for a relapse without one being forced on him. I'll end up having to detox him."

"I think you should be less worried about the drugs, John," Lestrade said with a sigh. "If he does what he did to those others…"

"Okay, I missed this entire case, and I barely skimmed the files when you brought them in. So I don't know what the autopsy reports said, and I haven't seen the bodies. What did he do to his 'dolls' before he 'broke' them? And what does that even mean, 'broke' them?"

Lestrade and Anderson exchanged a glance. "Okay, I'll grab the autopsy reports," Anderson said quietly.

From that glance, John gathered a lot of information. It was bad, whatever it was, and it was enough that even Anderson wouldn't wish it on Sherlock. After a minute he returned and John's eyes flicked over them with the scrutiny and interpretation only a doctor could use. And he tried very hard to distance himself and take an objective stance.

"He held them for one week," he mused, looking over the information. "Minimal nutrition during that time, severe malnutrition in all bodies, severe dehydration as well, but considering that dehydration didn't kill any of them or get the point of organ damage, they were given enough hydration to survive, but just barely, same could be said of the food intake. Physical injuries were extensive and severe, indicating prolonged abuse and possible torture over a week long period of capture."

John stopped, arching a brow. "Bodies when recovered were clean, wounds dressed and clothes arranged neatly. Underneath, multiple contusions of various stages of healing, lacerations also in various stages of healing and scabbing, all bandaged including salves when appropriate. Two victims had broken wrists, one had a broken wrist and ankle, and all had severe lacerations around wrists and ankles, most likely from restraints. Metal fragments indicate handcuffs or shackles of some sort. Signs of recent severe sexual trauma, leading to internal hemorrhaging. Indicates that if they had not been poisoned, they would have bled out eventually, within hours with the youngest victim, within a day or so with the oldest."

He looked up. "So basically, he 'broke' them, knew they were going to die from what he'd done to them, so he poisoned them and left them to find another victim. So what he means that Sherlock won't break…oh God. That's why the first victim was the youngest, and the last was the oldest. He found out he couldn't be as rough as he wanted with the younger ones, so he moved up in age, thinking they'd be stronger and able to handle it. And then Moriarty comes along…I think I might be sick." John set the files down and turned away, swallowing bile that started to rise in his throat.

Lestrade himself looked a bit green as he stared at the floor. "So, you see why I want to find him quickly, because over the course of the week…"

John nodded, tapping the three manila files. "I understand. Even if we find him today, this bastard has already begun. We might be too late as it is. He escalates as time goes on. He starts out 'playing nice' but then starts losing control. That's why it takes a whole week. Then he feels remorse, so he cleans the bodies, dresses the wounds and redresses them in their clothes he made for them, leaving them to be found like that, and rather than letting them bleed out, he poisons them when he realizes that he's 'broken' them. In some weird, twisted way, he really does care about them."

"What is the thing with that note, being a better daddy? I don't get that, he doesn't know Sherlock's father. And he's barely ten years older than Sherlock anyway…" Anderson mused, looking up at John from his seat at the desk.

John closed his eyes and tried to distance himself, tried to forget that it was Sherlock. "Look, I'm bullocks at what Sherlock does when it comes to distancing himself," he said. "I wish I knew how he did it, pull himself back and pretend he's completely clinical and remove all emotion from himself during a case, oh God how do I wish I knew how to do that."

Anderson fixed him with a frown. "What do you mean by that?"

John swallowed. He wasn't sure how to explain it. "He…does this thing…where he steps back, leaves everything but his logical mind behind, shuts it down, so he can go into a crime scene with a clear mind, emotionless, distant. It makes it easier for him to take in the facts and understand them if there is no emotional component, so he discards it. It makes him better at what he does, and for the life of me, I'll never get how he does it…"

Anderson just stared. "You mean he's not always like that?"

John arched a brow at him. "You don't know him outside of crime scenes at cases, Anderson, you really need to stop acting like you do. You've never seen him go completely insane on someone that hurt Ms. Hudson. You've never seen that fierce look in his eyes when he thinks someone he knows is going to get hurt. You don't know how confused and amazed he is about the world around him. Bloody brilliant, and bloody annoying at the same time, but he tries. He really does try. He just has a hard time with emotion, of course, now I understand why he locks them away…" he said thoughtfully.

John sighed and went for coffee and returned, stirring the awful tasting stuff with the silly little straw like stirring stick. "Okay," he said. "I'm going to do what I can. We know where he lived, what did you find there?"

"Definitely got the right guy. Pretty sure he took the rest to his home. Found a load of different opiates, syringes, antibiotics, all sorts of medical supplies. Found the clothes belonging to each one of the victims in a box with numbers one through three written on them. Found this, too," Anderson said as a woman came in and handed him an evidence box. He pulled out a manila folder and handed it to John.

Inside was a file on Sherlock. It was printouts from the blog, newspaper articles, pictures, and there were notes, written by Jaffrey. _Bone structure ideal. Skin color porcelain-like already. Research._ Then there was a letter in the back from Moriarty, labeled as M.

"Moriarty sent him a letter. He kept it in this file. 'Dear Mr. Dalton, I've seen your work and would like to offer my services as a consulting criminal in this field. It seems you are on the search in the last couple weeks for the ideal playmate but keep coming up short. Might I offer a suggesting of finding someone more durable? I understand you want someone unsoiled, but you simply must stop going to those that break so easily. I know of someone ideal to your preferences. Find attached a full file of his history, and I already noticed you took interest in him. As luck would have it, he is perfectly suited to your unique needs. Yours, M.' Dammit!" John rubbed his head, feeling another headache.

Anderson pulled out a couple other files and let the others look them over. All the evidence in the box had been photocopied and scanned so that it could be cataloged in the system. John thumbed through similarly put together files for the other three boys. Again, there were notes scribbled around the pictures, comments on skin, bone structure, age… He sighed. Lastly, Moriarty handed John a journal. He knitted his brows, unsure if he wanted to look.

"Have you?" he asked Anderson.

"The pages were scanned in for evidence, but I haven't read them yet," he said.

The first of the pages were somewhat normal. He was obviously confused about his gender identity, writing at length about his mother and dressing him in girls' clothes, then the reaction at school. Something seemed to have triggered the struggle. Ah, there it was, he was attracted to a woman. That was what led him to start dressing and living as a man again. So what had…

"Oh, now it makes sense…" John said, getting Lestrade and Anderson to look toward him. "Listen. Dated three and a half weeks ago. ' _I think my world has ended. Really this could not have been more disastrous. Today, I approached Marietta. I told her I thought she was beautiful, and I would like to take her out for coffee and get to know her. She looked at me and for a moment I thought she was going to smile, but she didn't, she laughed. Why did she laugh? I'd been sincere, and presented myself as a man for the last three months just for her sake, knowing that she was interested in men. Otherwise I would have presented myself as a woman, which I am far more comfortable as. But no, she laughed. Telling me that I was far too old for her, when she is in her mid-thirties herself. And then she said it. Same words, echoing in my brain. Too bad you're not a girl. I don't date men, I thought you knew. Her laughter died off and I realized she was laughing because she thought I knew she was a lesbian. I CHANGED FOR HER. AND I DIDN'T HAVE TO.'_ Next entry is a few days later. _'Oh, I saw him and I looked at my favorite doll, the one with the short blond bob, and I thought, wouldn't that look nice on him. So tonight, I'll slip into his bedroom and steal him away from his family. His family doesn't really love him, not like I can. I can help him, teach him to be the prettiest thing, just like mom did. And I'll be a good daddy.'_ A week more. _'I can't be angry, it was my fault, what is wrong with me? I need someone else, and I've found him. He's sweet, and he looks just like that lovely red haired doll. He'll look good in green. This time I'll be more careful.'_ Again, a week. _'This is so tedious! I can't believe I broke another one, and I loved him so much more than those terrible people he lived with. No, no, this time, I have an older toy in mind. He came in yesterday, and he was crying about being teased, and he told me everything I needed to know. Tonight, yes, tonight.'_ " John stopped.

"Okay, there's a last one, ' _What is wrong with me? I can't believe it…but I remembered what M sent me, and I know what to do. Yes, yes, he's right. So pretty. And won't break easily. No, not easily at all, but I suppose now I enjoy breaking them, don't I? Yes, I left the body, pretty as he could be, and now I'll go back and wait. He's always with that other man, the military one. M says they're friends. I'll take them both. I don't care about the other. But with one so much older, I need some sort of safety net. I have to make him behave. And if this friend of his is what I can use, I will do it. I won't tell him, of course, that he'll never leave alive. I'll use his freedom, and then he'll be so much more pliable, doing what I ask without a fight, and if he doesn't fight, I won't have to break him so fast. I've stocked up on blood though, this time, just in case. I have a whole icebox full of it in O type. That and fentanyl. M warned me he used opiates, so I'll take the strongest with me. I can't stay here, I know that. So it will be off to parts unknown. Good thing I know plenty dark places to hide. M said his brother uses CC cameras in the city. Can I do what Mum couldn't do? Can I make him into the perfect doll? I think I might be able to this time. Mum tried, but obviously failed with me. I couldn't be her little doll forever. Now, now I can try. And be a better daddy than he had, I've seen how terrible he was. I'll be gentle and loving, and he'll stay as my doll, and then I'll kill his friend, and he'll have to stay because it will make him alone. And if he doesn't, I'll kill him and find another to take his place. But I hope not, he is such a pretty one.'_ " John blinked and looked up. Everyone was staring now.

Lestrade broke the silence first. "Okay, if there was any doubt this fucker wasn't stark raving mad before, I think that just blew it out of the water. And good deductions there, John, you did figure part of that out before Anderson brought in the journal. Now, we have a consulting detective to find…"

Lestrade strode out into the front, clapping his hands to get attention.

"Alright, I want everyone not otherwise occupied on priority work to listen up. You're all familiar with Sherlock Holmes. Sergeant Donovan and Sherlock have been kidnapped by what we can only describe as a madman. His target was Sherlock, and he's probably using Sally as leverage on him to keep him from fighting back against him. His name is Jaffrey Dalton, and he's a nurse for a local school. He has raped, beaten and murdered three boys in three weeks. We need to locate Sally and Sherlock as soon as possible. He is highly unstable, and it is unknown how long he will allow them to live. He is to be considered armed and dangerous.

"Our first priority is to get Sherlock and Sally back alive, no matter how. He is avoiding cameras as we have access to security and traffic cams. His last known location was outside London proper. Given the timeframe between contact with the sergeant and now, we are looking at a time of three hours. Confine searches to abandoned buildings within three hours travel of their location. Stay in radio contact at all times. Do not engage unless you have a clear shot. I'm authorizing arms on this mission," Lestrade said. "Any questions? No, then go!"


	3. Daddy

Sally was sure there was a rave going on inside her skull. Really, flashing lights, thumping beats, all of it. Then she remembered. Oh shit. She had gotten the call to connect to Lestrade, so why was she sitting up instead of in a nice hospital bed? She swallowed and opened her eyes slowly, wincing as light entered her blinding. Damn, damn, damn, she thought as her eyes slowly adjusted to the influx of light. Finally, she managed to get them open and pulled an aching head up. First, where was she?

It was an open room, with high windows. Some sort of warehouse, then, she thought. She was secured to some sort of metal chair. She jangled and there was a cuff on each hand and one on each ankle. Okay, so no picking the locks this time, and no breaking the chair since it was metal. The cuffs were above crossbars, so no tipping the chair and slipping them off. Shit, this asshole thought of everything. She sighed and looked around to see if she could find Sherlock, but from what she could tell, she was alone. Not good. Sherlock was the only think keeping this bastard from killing her.

There was a crash nearby and she watched as the pudgy bastard was dragging a table into the room. She opted to stay quiet. Maybe he wouldn't realize she was awake. She watched with interest as he proceeded to dress the area, eerily similar to the way he'd dressed the other scenes. She knew it was too soon for him to kill, it took him a week of abuse before he got to that point, so that meant he played out these things with the victims multiple times? Before long, there sat a table with chairs, the table and chairs covered with lacy cloths. The table was dressed with a fine tea set and china plates. A platter with small cakes and biscuits sat in the center. He had a hotplate that he connected to some sort of portable generator that he was heating the teapot on. He had also, while she was out, pulled in a large recliner or rocker that had seen better days. He covered it with a sheet and dropped a crochet throw on it. All the time he set up, he hummed to himself.

He left and returned with a couple of the dolls and she watched as he arranged them in two of the seats. There was something eerie about the faceless dolls. He left again and this time she heard more noise, muffled yelling that she recognized as Sherlock's voice. The drugs must be wearing off again. She certainly hadn't been given anything, she thought morosely. If she had, her head wouldn't be splitting.

She looked up as the man brought a stumbling Sherlock into the room. His hands were secured behind his back, and the guy was dragging him by his upper arms. He was gagged this time, eyes wide and wild as he looked around him. He still wore the ridiculous outfit the guy had put him in before she left, but he appeared to have lost the shoes, his feet clad in ripped black socks. He was struggling against the man that held him, but his moves were still weak, so obviously, he was still drugged somewhat.

"Now, now, Doll, come now, I wish you wouldn't struggle so, I don't want you to get hurt," he said softly, but there was an edge to his voice. Something dangerous.

Before Sally could stop herself she yelled, "Sherlock, calm down before…"

Just then, the psycho bastard struck out with a booted foot and there was a loud crack that resounded, and Sherlock's eyes went wide, breath stuttering. She couldn't see exactly what he'd done, but she knew breaking bone when she heard it.

"Now, look what you made me do, lovely. Tsk, now," he said, sorrowful tinge to his voice as he dropped Sherlock into one of the dressed chairs.

He quickly wrapped rope around his lap, weaving it intricately around his legs, lap, waist and back, securing him to the chair. She could see him now, and his ankle was at an odd angle. Shit. That made escape attempts pretty much impossible. He reached up and removed the gag and Sally watched as he struggled with his breathing, glaring daggers at the guy.

"Daddy doesn't like to punish you, but you know I have to when you misbehave, Dolly," he said, looking at Sherlock with misty eyes. "It hurts me so much more than it hurts you!"

"Now, let's have some tea," he said suddenly with a grin and poured tea into the delicate cups.

Sally realized how thirsty she was, and could imagine with as much drugging Sherlock had taken he too would be dehydrated. She would give anything to have a cup of tea at that moment.

"Her," Sherlock croaked, his voice rough.

"Lovely, what do you mean?" he asked, frowning at Sherlock.

"Give her tea. M'b ehave." He kept his eyes on the table in front of him.

"Oh, you'll behave if I give her something to drink?" he said, grin spreading. Sherlock nodded.

He fixed a cup and brought it to Sally. It was warm, but not too hot to drink. He held it to her lips and Sally was not about to pass up any chance at hydration, so she drank it. He was surprisingly capable of feeding her the drink. She was grateful to Sherlock, but her gut clenched at the thought of what he'd have to do to "behave" for this guy.

"There now, I gave her a cuppa. Now, you'll drink your cuppa like a good doll?" he asked, getting a nod from Sherlock.

He approached and let him sip the drink, carefully avoiding spilling it. Sherlock swallowed, but his eyes darted about the room as he did so. Despite how much he hated the idea of doing what he said, Sally already had a concussion from the bastard, and he didn't want to see her die from dehydration before his eyes. He knew Mycroft had to be looking, but this bastard was careful. His stomach flipped though as he thought of the bodies of the three children. He was a sadist; it was obvious from the bodies. And the first day and he already had a broken ankle.

"Oh, you are such a dear. You know, I found the fact that your real daddy was so mean to you so sad, you know," he said, sipping his tea, holding a manila folder. Sherlock frowned and shook his head. It still had a large quantity of cotton in it.

"Dunno whatcha mean," he muttered.

"Oh, this, M gave me," he said, holding up the folder. "Ten years old, huh?"

Sherlock's head jerked up then. Sally could see the instant reaction, the tension shooting through his body, the spasms wracking his hands that were tied to his sides. "Where…did that come…" he stuttered, but Sally could tell it was more than just the after effects of the drug he'd been under.

"Tsk, I wouldn't have been so rough with you. Really. Not the first time, you'll see later. I'll be gentle and loving, and if you're good, you won't get hurt, I promise. But this, goodness me, what a mess you were. Two broken ribs, shattered orbital bone, see I wouldn't hurt your pretty face, lovely. Let's see. Surgery, too, he broke you but they fixed you. See I broke my other dolls, too. That's what happens when they're too young, that's what M said. That's why he told me to find you instead. You won't break…well, at least I hope not. But I'm ready this time. I kept a suture kit and ten blood bags, so if you break, I'll try to fix you. I'm not a doctor though, so might not work…" he seemed to be talking to himself.

He smiled and flipped pages again. "Oh, goodness, spent a week in the hospital, did you? Surgery is so hard on a child, especially that kind. How long were you off regular food?"

Sherlock glared at him but didn't say anything. "Now, Doll, you know what happens if you don't cooperate," he said, looking over at Sally. "And you said you'd behave. Now don't make me punish you for lying to me. You really don't want that."

"Three weeks," he said softly.

"There, Doll, was that so hard to tell Daddy?" he asked, leaning forward to give him another drink of tea. As embarrassing as it was, he took whatever he offered him.

"Now, what else…oh, your mom didn't leave your dad? How did that work? They let you go back to her too…" he mused. "Why's that?"

Sherlock's throat worked. These memories were supposed to be locked away, and now that his head was clearing up somewhat he really didn't want to talk. "M'brother moved us to a flat in London," he said quietly. "Money stopped it."

"Ah, so your daddy paid off everyone involved, did he? That's why M said this was so hard to get ahold of. No one knew what happened, did they?" he said, grinning at him. "Nothing public."

Sherlock nodded, and had a biscuit shoved into his mouth roughly. He nearly spit it back out but thought better of it. Better to play along and get what food he could. Before this, he'd already gone three days without eating because of the case.

"So tell me, lovely, what did that real daddy do to you?" he asked, leaning forward and placing elbows on the table. Sherlock's head snapped up and he shook his head.

"Please, I don wanna do this," he begged. "Don wanna, please," he almost moaned the words.

The man stood up and walked around to Sherlock to stand behind him. "You said you'd behave, and you aren't. That means I have to punish you for lying. I warned you once already, Doll."

Sherlock shook his head violently as he tied a gag back on him and walked away. There was a few tense moments and he came back with what Sally realized was a riding crop. Oh this wouldn't be good. Sherlock's eyes widened at the sight, more than a little aware of the damage a riding crop did. He had a syringe in the other hand and deftly injected Sherlock in the arm through the fabric of his dress. He blinked as his head started to fuzz but it wasn't as strong as whatever else he'd been using.

"Just a little hydrocodone, love, don't want you passing out during your punishment, but don't want you struggling too much. Now, this hurts me far more than you, but I have to be a good daddy, and take care of you, my lovely," he said and untied the ropes. Sherlock was free but his arms lacked the strength to move much.

He yanked him up from the chair and threw him down again on it, laying him over the seat. He pulled his hands, wrapping the rope around them and tying them to the chairs as his arms hung over, the chair seat digging painfully into his ribcage. He frowned, not sure how he ended up into this position. He looked up and saw Sally staring at him. He blinked several times, chewing against the gag for a minute until he felt the layered skirts and petticoats lifted and pinned to the back of the dress. When did that happen? He thought dully. He gasped as the bloomers were pulled off him roughly, cold air assaulting his legs and backside. That couldn't be good, he thought sluggishly. His mind was having trouble processing that when the first smack hit the back of his thigh.

Sally watched as he threw him down across the chair and secured him. She was positioned where he was now looking straight at her. She saw the confusion on his face as though he wasn't entirely sure what was going on as the man pulled off the black bloomers and tossed them to the side and pulled back with the crop, landing with a really loud, echoing smack, making Sherlock yelp and jerk against the robes holding him down. The sound was muffled by the gag. Again and again, and she had to look away. She counted at least twenty hits with the thing, all hard and loud in the open room. Then she heard a choked sound and turned back..

Sherlock's mind was a spinning world of stinging pain. He'd never realized exactly how much those damn things hurt. The pain had cleared out a lot of the cotton, and despite the dose of hydrocodone he'd given him, it still hurt. But perhaps that was just his resistance to drugs that did that. Finally, he stopped, and he felt like fire was burning across his buttocks and thighs. He felt the drip of blood down the back of his legs and knew the skin had been split with the violence of the attack. Aside from the initial yelp of surprise, though he'd managed to avoid giving him the pleasure of hearing him scream. He refused. He would not…then he choked thickly as he felt hands running across the searing flesh.

He wanted to ask what the hell he was doing now, but he didn't have to ask because at some base level he knew, he knew because this was so familiar, too familiar. Again, the choked sound escaped him through the gag as hands kneaded the bleeding flesh on his thighs. He shook his head then and tried to tell him to stop, but the hands didn't stop.

"Shh, I'll be gentle with you, I won't break you, I promise, I promise," he said, and he was leaning over him, breath heavy in his ear now. "I'm so sorry, I was going to wait, I really was, but I just can't, not with you so beautifully laid out…no, definitely can't wait…" he murmured, hands traveling up and down his back under the satiny dress and camisole.

He tried to escape to his mind palace, desperately, that place he'd crafted so he could run from sensation, from the world, but the doors were locked, and he knew it was either the drugs or the fear, but either way, the result was the same. He couldn't escape.

"Now, I want to hear you, Dolly, no one else can, and I told them I thought you'd scream, will you?" he muttered in his ear again, untying the cloth to fall out of his mouth. "Daddy will be so gentle, I'll even prepare you, I bet your other daddy didn't do that, did he? No, because he broke you. I can't let that happen," he said, and Sherlock choked back a cry when he was invaded by questing fingers, pushing and stretching, sending a burning sensation throughout his body that was somehow worse than the searing flesh on his thighs and buttocks.

"S-stop, please, n-no…" he begged, shaking his head. The position was awful; he had no support except under his ribcage, his head and shoulders dangled over the side, arms pulled down so his wrists were secured to the chair legs.

"Shh, I told you, I'll be gentle, see, I'm helping make it easier, aren't I?" he said softly. When there was no reply from Sherlock he scowled and jammed his fingers hard into him getting a yelp.

"I said, I'm making it easier, aren't I? Answer when I talk to you, Dolly, or Daddy will get very angry…" he said into his ear again.

"Yes!" he said quickly this time, tears finding their way from his watering eyes now.

"Now, look at that," he said, holding his hand in front of Sherlock's eyes now to see it was bloody. "You made me make you bleed already. Now that's not good, I promised to be gentle, and look…what…you…made…me…do."

Sherlock swallowed, half happy his hand was out of his body, half distressed at the edge to his voice. He couldn't predict him. Not at all. Even with full faculties, he was sure that this man was simply too insane for him to predict. "M'sorry, please, m'sorry!" he said finally, hoping to ease his sudden anger at him.

Sally was wide eyed. This guy was nuts. Completely and totally nuts. At Sherlock's apology his scowl faded and he smiled, running hands through Sherlock's hair, sending a shiver down her spine as the blood on his hand was spread through his hair.

"Good Dolly, good," he said softly, then there was movement and rustling, and Sherlock felt hands on his hips now, rubbing big circles on them slowly.

At first he wondered what he was doing, then he cried out, eyes rolling up at the sudden intrusion as he slammed into him, back arching as pain shot up his back and down into the very arches of his feet. He kept still, then, leaning over, fully seated into his body, rubbing his hands over Sherlock's satin covered back. He slumped down and whimpered, unable to control the sounds coming from him. The drugs had lowered his resistance, and while they dulled the intense pain, nowhere near enough. He shook his head as he began rocking against him, slow and his passage only eased by blood from the dry entry. Sherlock knew that it hadn't done much when he "prepared" him. That was a laugh. Sherlock knew the mechanics of this, even if he'd never actually participated in such things.

Desperately, he tried to keep his mind on those thoughts, thinking, but the pain, it just wouldn't leave his brain alone, and the memories were surging. Memories of someone else over him, pressed into a desk, wood biting into his stomach, legs too short to reach the floor, breath on his neck, just like this, but with the smell of stale bourbon. The same sensation, blood running down his legs, dripping, sending his head reeling with dizziness. There had been no drugs then, no and that was the day his mind palace was built, the first time, then more of a cellar, a place to lock himself, and now, here, the drugs denied him his escape. He wondered vaguely who was sobbing…then to his own horror he realized it was him.

Stinging and burning release came and he gagged violently, stomach recoiling at both current and remembered sensation. He felt awful as his body rejected the tea and biscuit he'd just eaten, eyes burning with hot tears. Before he knew it, his hands were free and he was being lifted upward. He felt the skirts falling back down over his bare backside and legs. Pain shot from his ankle as he tried to walk, but he was really being dragged toward a large chair closer to where Sally was tied. Oh, Sally, he'd forgotten about her. And he couldn't at the moment care, though. He was in too much pain.

"You are so light for your size, lovely, really," he said, dropping him painfully into the seat. Already, blood was soaking through the back of the red dress, and he knew why he had chosen red.

Sally was having trouble breathing at the moment. She watched as he dropped him into the chair and then left, and she wanted to scream at him to get up, try to get out, but it didn't matter. His eyes were wide, and utterly vacant. With a broken ankle, there was no way, even without being brutally raped and drugged like he was, he wouldn't have been able to make it out of the place before he got back. She swallowed hard again, and he was back already, this time with a rolling table with a bowl on top. He pushed it over, and then took a cloth and began cleaning Sherlock's calves which were now stained heavily with blood. He shoved him over onto his side and Sally was staring into his eyes now.

He barely moved when he lifted the skirts and began cleaning the blood from underneath them, and she realized he had to be in shock, because his face was pale, even more than normal. At least he wasn't bleeding too much from what she could tell. He finished, and pushed the table away, and returned, syringe in hand. He lifted the skirts and injected him somewhere under them, then disappeared again, and the tension seemed to drain out of Sherlock's body as whatever drug it was took effect.

He came back and slid into the chair, grabbing Sherlock and pulling him into his lap, laying his head into the crook of his shoulder like he was some sort of child in need of comforting. Sherlock's eyes were wide and pupils completely dilated. She wondered if he was even aware of his surroundings anymore.

"There, now, that wasn't so bad, was it?" he whispered, petting his hair with disgusting gentleness. "Next time, you'll tell me what I ask, won't you? Because I can't resist you like that. I'm afraid punishment will mean I'll have to have you again, do you understand? Though I was rougher than I should have been, and for that I'm sorry. I'd planned to have you more ready before I did that, but you brought it on yourself, lovely. Yes, all your fault for being a bad dolly. You'll remember next time, yes, won't you?"

Sally caught the shudder that shook his body and she hoped that Lestrade and the others were close to finding them. She wasn't sure how much she could take before _she_ broke, let alone what he was going through. Eventually, it seemed Sherlock fell asleep. He stood up and came back with a set of shackles, attaching them to his wrists and ankles, and then clipping them to something on the other side of the chair. He leaned the chair back, and let Sherlock somewhat lie down, and then lay a blanket over him with the gentleness of a parent. It was quite sick, actually, and she felt her own stomach recoil. He moved around, cleaning the area of where Sherlock had vomited and where blood had dripped onto the concrete.

She found herself, splitting headache and all, nodding off at some point. The exhaustion was too much. She awoke sometime after full dark, the only light from dim moon and starlight coming in through he too high windows. She blinked wearily wondering what had woken her but then she heard it. It was Sherlock's voice, in his sleep, caught in some sort of nightmare. Her heart clenched at the pitifully small noises he was making.

"No…don't…m'sorry Father…no…hurts. Mummy, hurts…can't…don't touch me!" he shouted the last and jolted awake, eyes blinking hazily in the room. She kept quiet, though as he came to full wakefulness.

He tried to sit and hissed in obvious pain. He pulled at the shackles and made another pained noise as he pulled on his foot. He groaned and flopped back into the cushions for a moment before he started to panic, jerking on the shackles suddenly, breath speeding up.

"Sherlock!" she called, but he seemed to be lost in whatever was in his head. "Sherlock, calm down, you're panicking, and you're going to hurt yourself worse! Breathe, in and out, slowly!" she said.

He seemed to somehow hear her and he forced his body to stop the reaction. He laid there a long moment breathing heavily, fighting back the demons in his mind.

"You okay, Sally?" he said finally. "He…he hasn't hurt you?"

Sally swallowed hard. "No, I'm fine, Sherlock, just a bit of a headache, you know. But I'm okay."

He sighed deeply, yanking uselessly on the shackle again. "Good. Good for sumthin," he muttered, blinking slowly. "Mah head fulla cotton, can't think," he muttered. "Why'd I do this by choice before? I dunno what to do…dammit…I never…I can't…John," he moaned the last word.

Sally could see he was slipping. "Hey, Sherlock, tell me about John, then, okay? I shouldn't sleep with the concussion I have, right? So you gotta help me out."

His face seemed to clear of the intense pain. "John…saved me. No one else knows that," he said softly. "Not even John, I can't tell him that. He…he makes me _feel_ when no one else can. How does he do that? My only friend…best friend…" He smiled softly, his eyes looking far away, but at least not as vacant as they were. "Think I love him, but don wanna mess it up, mess ever'thing up anyway. Push him 'way so don get messed up too. So toxic, like my spearments. Such a mess…all over the flat, but he stays, why does he stay? Gotta skull sitting there and John stays anyway…shoot the wall, and John stays…oh John…" he was about to slip in a sleep again then his eyes snapped open. "John, no, all chance, no one wants me after this…I'm used up again, so much…he'll be disgusted with me. I shoulda seen it, shoulda known, but I _missed_ it. How could I _miss_ it so bad. Just a fraud, like they say, all a fraud, I'm nothin', nothin', it's all an act…useless like he said…useless and broken…"

Sally sighed as he whispered the last, his body finally giving in to the mix of exhaustion, shock, and drugs. She blinked back her own tears. Good God, this is the person she just assumed was some sort of automaton. She didn't even consider that he had feelings of any sort. He was in love with John Watson, and couldn't even admit it to himself. She huffed a sigh and leaned her head back, stomach loudly protesting the lack of food. As she faded into sleep, she couldn't get Sherlock's eyes out of her mind, and through a fitful sleep, everything replayed again and again.

She awoke with a start as there was a loud noise somewhere nearby. Her muddled mind couldn't place it for a moment, and then she realized it was a shriek. She blinked her eyes blearily and closed them again. She didn't want to watch this. Not again.

He'd been asleep, fitfully, but asleep nonetheless. The drugs had worn off sometime during the night, and he was left with a dull ache all throughout his body. He recognized the feelings all too well, coming down off opiates like that. And his body was already screaming at him for more. He groaned and his eyes fluttered open only to be met with the dark beady eyes of his captor. He was kneeling beside the chair he was laid out on staring at him.

"Morning, my sweet Dolly. Did you sleep well?" he said with a soft smile, as though it was perfectly normal to hold someone captive in shackles.

"No," he answered truthfully, brows knitting together.

"He warned me that you were quite unpleasant when you weren't drugged," he said, still pleasantly.

"I want to be let go. My brother will find you and he'll make you disappear," Sherlock said quietly, and realized, he'd never in his entire life wanted Mycroft to do something so badly before. He never threatened people with Mycroft. He never asked anything of Mycroft. But right now, if he could, he'd turn away while Mycroft dealt with him. And he would hope he would do so in the most painful way possible.

"Yes, that brother of yours. Well don't worry. I've been assured he's off on wild goose chases arranged by our friendly consulting criminal," he said lightly.

Sherlock couldn't help the tears that started to form, but he fought them back. He did not cry. He would gladly disregard the embarrassing episode the day before as being the drugs. He did not sob like a broken child. Never.

"Yes, he's quite helpful. And all he wants is the videos," he grinned and Sherlock paled.

"What?" he said softly.

"Oh yes, Dolly, I forgot to tell you. For his help, he asked to have copies of the videos sent to him. I just sent him yesterday's recording. I hope he likes it. Oh! I sent it to your John too. I thought he might like to see you, since he's all you mutter about in your sleep," he said, patting his head.

Sherlock's stomach threatened to rebel again. If it was bad enough that he be seen like this by Sally…but…no. He looked around frantically and to his horror, attached to a generator up in the wall nearby was a camera, the red light indicating it was indeed recording. He followed the cord to a laptop that sat on a cart beside it, and his stomach dropped.

"No," he moaned. "No, don't…damn you!" he snarled, scowling at the man.

Then, he watched as that change happened again. His face went from perfectly pleasant to pinched in fury. His hand was moving before Sherlock knew it and backhanded him hard enough that he tasted blood filling his mouth.

"What a dirty mouth! I will not put up with such language, Dolly. Not at all. Now I have to punish you _again._ You are turning out to need more discipline than I thought. You know what that means, don't you?" he said, standing.

He turned and left Sherlock shaking violently. Was he going to use the crop on him again? He hoped not, his skin had barely scabbed over from the night before. He hated this. He couldn't predict anything about him! He was completely random, and it seemed different things triggered him at different points. Instead of the crop, though, he came back pushing one of those small steel tables. Sherlock frowned and saw there was something on top of it, and it smelled…hot.

"Now, now, for such a mouth, we just have to make sure you can't use it like that again," he said, holding up a metal spatula from what looked to be a hotplate.

Sherlock was confused until he reached out and wrenched his jaw open. His eyes went wide as he shoved the hot metal into his mouth and slammed it shut on top of it. Sherlock had never shrieked in his life. He did then as the metal seared into his tongue, cheeks and the roof of his mouth. Even with his mouth closed, it was loud, and he saw from the corner of his eye that Sally had jerked awake and was staring wide eyed at him as he struggled against the hands that were holding his mouth shut around the implement. He felt the metal sides biting into the flesh of his cheeks and he was sure that he'd never be able to feel his tongue again. Then he let go and yanked it roughly out of his mouth, leaving the fire behind.

He whimpered, he couldn't' help it. It felt like his tongue was still on fire as he let his mouth hang open, trying to suck cooling air over the burning flesh in his mouth. Tears were now pouring freely from his eyes as blood and saliva dripped from his mouth.

"Now, now, that was a naughty Dolly, wasn't it? Now, are you going to say such things again?" he said. Sherlock stared at him with watering eyes. How did he expect him to answer? He shook his head, but was met with another backhanded slap. "Speak when I ask you something!" he screamed.

"No…" he managed with some difficulty because his tongue was starting to swell. "No."

He leaned forward, his face a mask of fury. "No what?"

Sherlock's brain had short circuited and he had no idea what he wanted, so he just stared at him for a moment until he felt his hand yanked up hard against the shackles. He had turned at some point and grabbed the hotplate, and while it was unplugged from the generator (seriously, how many generators did this psycho bastard have? That was at least three so far.), he could still see the element was red. His eyes went wide.

"No, what?" he asked again, and Sherlock felt his brain scrambling for the answer.

"Dunt know!" he cried around his swollen tongue.

He shoved the plate under his left hand and pressed it to the hot metal and Sherlock did screech then, eyes wide and thrashing against him. "No, Daddy," he said softly, the fury fading and the loving mask slipping back. "No, Daddy, and I'll stop your punishment, Dolly."

"No, D-duh-duh!" he practically screamed around his tongue, barely able to make the words come out.

His hand was pulled up, and he swore there was skin left behind, and the plate sat down with a clang. Sherlock's breathing was rapid and he was on verge of hyperventilating. "Now, see that? Look what you made me do, you naughty thing, you!" he screamed, slapping him hard across the face again. "I was trying to be nice, and look what you made me do!"

Sherlock was trying to become as small as possible, pulling back into the chair as far as he could, away from the rage roiling off his captor. "You did this!" he yelled as he pulled his head up by the hair as far as the shackles would allow. "YOU did this, not me, do you understand? Answer me!" he screamed in his face, spittle flying as he yelled.

"Yeth! Yeth, Duhday!" he said, eyes pouring more tears despite his mental protest against it. They just wouldn't stop. His hand felt like it was going to start burning and set the rest of him on fire, and he thought he could handle pain. He could feel the slotted patter on his tongue where the spatula had left its mark, the sides of his cheeks feeling like knives had cut through them. He was heaving breaths now, but it didn't seem enough air was getting there.

He dropped him suddenly and smiled gently. "There, that's a good Dolly. Now, I'll go get you some medicine to make you feel better, then I'll show you how much I still love you, even though you've been such a naughty thing this morning already."

Sherlock rolled his eyes wearily to see Sally staring at him. His mouth was still open, tongue swollen thickly between his lips and he still felt something dripping down from his mouth, whether blood or saliva, he didn't know, and at the moment he didn't care. He jerked when he felt the shirts pulled up and the pinch of a needle entering the flesh of his buttocks. The cooling relief washed over him, but it wasn't the mind numbing one. No, this was the milder one he used.

Then hands again. His eyes went wide as he felt him slide behind him in the chair. He was laying on his side still, hands pulled tight with the shackles and chains over the side. He shook his head as he wrapped his hands around his chest and hugged him, almost lovingly. But then a hand was sliding up and down on his hip again and he tried to jerk away, eyes wide.

"Easy, lovely. I told you I'll show you how much I love you, even when you're so naughty that I have to punish you…" he breathed into his ear and he saw Sally close her eyes and look away. He silently thanked her for that.

"Puhls," he said. "Nah, nah mah," he begged, but it didn't matter, he was biting now at the lace on his throat, and then it was being ripped open, and there were teeth biting into the tendons there, leaving bloody marks.

He nearly choked on his tongue as he felt him probing his body again, pulling away, fighting when there was nowhere to go. The hands froze, fingers buried inside him still and there was hot breath on his ear.

"Dolly, if punishing you for being naughty doesn't work, I'll punish her. Do you understand? Do you want me to make you watch me punish her like this?" he said, roughly forcing four fingers into him well past the third knuckle, making him arch away from him with a sharp whine. He shook his head, his voice completely absent now.

He stayed still as he moved upward and moved his leg upward and slid into him, and all Sherlock could do was close his eyes, and again, found his mind palace blocked to him. He wept then, he couldn't do anything else. And again, he found himself retching over the side of the chair when he was done and as he cleaned him up with the water again. He stared ahead, eyes open and vacant.

"You look pale, lovely. I think I should give you a little blood, so I'll set it up," he said, gently petting Sherlock's head, ignoring the flinching as he touched him. "I'm sorry, I've broken you a little, it seems. Sorry, I just…I just can't control myself, you know…I'm sorry, so sorry. But I'm ready this time. I have enough blood for this."

Sally watched with horror as he hooked up an IV and put a blood bag onto it to transfuse him. Her stomach roiled. He expected this. He expected to make him bleed so much he had to actually give him blood. She frowned and realized exactly how wet looking the chair Sherlock laid on was, and wondered if that was all blood, or if it was wet from the water when he cleaned him.

"You're going to kill him like that," she said suddenly. "You can't keep this up…he's going to die."

He turned toward her and smiled. "You should hope he doesn't, because the moment he does, I plan on shooting you."

He turned and left, leaving Sally with her thoughts. She turned and looked at the camera. It had a view of everything in the room, and her stomach roiled again because she could do _nothing._


	4. Rescue

When the elevator opened, Lestrade knew something was wrong. John was positively glowering. His color was bad and he looked like he'd gotten little sleep the night before. But it was more than that. No, there was something much more. There was a set to his jaw, where the tension seemed to make it vibrate it was strung so tight. It was midafternoon, and Lestrade had everyone he knew on the case. It was Thursday. Sherlock had gone missing on Monday night. They'd raided the empty house Wednesday. Today was Thursday, and the clock was ticking. The pattern was the body would be found on Monday, along with another missing person. So the fact that John was upset was certain, but no, as he got closer, he realized his eyes were red. Very red, and very puffy.

"I've already forwarded this to Mycroft. He's doubled the agents dedicated to it. I thought you should see it," John said as he slapped a disk into his hand. "It came in my email just after noon today."

Lestrade stared at it and back at John. "Okay, come on," he said, and summoned Anderson as he passed by the desk. As soon as they entered the office, John turned the blinds on the windows and sunk into the chair as Lestrade put the disk into the computer. Lestrade looked up questioningly.

"I can't watch it again. There's no sound, but there doesn't need to be," he said, looking out the window into the afternoon light.

Lestrade ran the disk. A message floated across the video first. "Hello John! I know you miss your dear, sweet boyfriend, Sherlock. So I thought I'd give you a look at how he's doing in Jaffrey's hands! Yours, JM." Anderson and Lestrade exchanged glances as it came to life.

The first image was black and shaky as a lens cap was taken off, and they were looking directly into the pudgy face of the man they were looking for. He grinned and wiped the lens with a cloth, then moved it to affix it to the wall, it seemed. He adjusted it and they saw Sally slumped in a chair. "She's alive," Anderson said after she moved a bit. Then he began arranging the room. A table, chairs, tea, a recliner. He seemed to enjoy the set up. During that time, Sally lifted her head, and it seemed she didn't note the camera. Then she was yelling something outside the range of the camera and she flinched, looking away. Jaffrey appeared, dragging a stumbling Sherlock in the dress he'd been in the picture in. The camera was good quality, full color, but no sound. They watched as he insisted on Sally getting something, and Anderson frowned at the gesture.

"He told him to give her some," he said softly. "But she doesn't look happy, whatever he said."

After a bit, they watched as he pulled a folder from a table and they recognized it. He started questioning Sherlock, and he resisted. And then it was like another man took over the mild looking man, the sudden violence and viciousness of the beating he gave Sherlock for some reason and the attack thereafter left both detectives wide eyed and wanting to look away.

"Don't worry," John said softly. "It gets worse."

Lestrade frowned and glanced at Anderson. The rest of the scene placed out, where he took Sherlock and cradled him, petting him and treating him like an errant child. Sally was biting her lip and they could see the blood running down her wrists in the video from her own struggle.

Just then, Lestrade's phone chirped and he had a message. _Check your mail. Just a thought.- JM_

Lestrade paused the video and pulled up his mail. A video in an email. He opened it. It appeared to be the same video John had, but when he opened it a blast of sound came from the speakers. "Greg, m'boy," came a slightly Irish lilt. "Thought you might want to _hear_ things. So here you go. Give Jawn mah regards!" Then the video began anew, this time with full sound. Now John did get up and come around, matching the images with the sounds. By the time they had got through the first scene a second time, all three were slightly green. John was incredibly amazed at his friend's ability to avoid screaming as long as he did. Then the video sped forward, obviously nothing but sleeping. Then it slowed to the conversation between Sally and Sherlock during the night, which made John's face burn, but neither of the other two in the room acknowledged it. Other than, of course, a small grin shared that John didn't see at all.

"I don't know if I can watch this, again," John said as the next morning began.

Sally slept as Jaffrey woke Sherlock, who was obviously out of the influence of the drugs now. But even then, he didn't attack him with a typical level of snark. It was obvious the assault the day before had taken a toll on the detective. A great toll, by the posture and the pained look on his face. Until he was pointed out the fact there was a camera. And then Sherlock cussed, albeit mildly, and it completely set off the man again.

"This guy is highly unstable…Sherlock said worse things before and he ignored them…" Lestrade said, frowning as Sherlock's eyes followed the man out. It was obvious he was scared of what he would do. He was actually trembling, John noticed. Sally was still sleeping, the conversation between Sherlock and Jaffrey had been quiet, almost too quiet to be heard clearly.

"I image that Sherlock's at a complete loss. He normally can handle anyone, but this guy, there's no way to predict how he'll act or react," John said, swallowing hard as they watched him return with a cart.

Neither Anderson nor Lestrade could hide the horror as they watched him use a heated spatula on his mouth, and the shriek of pain that brought Sally awake made them all gasp. Then the hotplate, and very berating were no better, forcing him to say things, to call him that, and it was easy to tell from the blood running and the swelling of Sherlock's tongue that it was painful to even talk. Then, they cringed and were entrapped by the second assault, and petting him, telling him how much he loved him. They flinched at his words to Sally, that she should hope Sherlock didn't die, because she'd be shot the second he did.

"Forward the one with sound to Mycroft," John said softly, turning away. "He needs to hear what he's said; maybe it will give him some clues. Can we get a still frame of the building that we can zoom in on?"

John's phone buzzed. _Did you like the video, John? Doesn't he scream pretty? After I sent you the soundless one I felt that perhaps his screams should be shared. -JM_

John was sick and shoved the phone back in his pocket. They had to find him. Soon.

-Elsewhere-

Sally woke with a start, but luckily not to Sherlock shrieking in pain. She wasn't sure what woke her, but from the high windows, it was late afternoon now. She was really feeling the effects of no food or water, though. She looked over to find the blood back on the IV had been replaced by saline. Sherlock hadn't moved, and his mouth was even more swollen. His breaths were ragged and she wondered if the swelling was going to block his airway soon.

She looked up to see he was coming back. He smiled at her, then went to Sherlock's side, shaking his shoulder. Sherlock mumbled thickly around his swollen tongue.

"Doll, wake up for Daddy," he said, shaking him harshly again. Sherlock still didn't respond. There was a snort from the man.

"Wake up, Dolly, or Daddy is going to be mad…" he said again, and Sally recognized that dangerous edge to his voice. He would flip out again, and this time who knew what he'd do…

He turned and left suddenly, and Sally let out a deep sigh. Okay, maybe he would just come back later. It was quite obvious he was unconscious from the shock and trauma; it wasn't like he could help it. That bastard was the one who'd done it to him. The burns alone were enough. She glanced up and realized he was coming back, and in the dim light, she saw the furious mask on his face. Oh no, she thought. He couldn't…

He kneeled in front of his face again. "Doll," he said with a forceful tone. "Either wake up, or I'm going to do something not nice to make you wake up."

"Hey!" Sally yelled. "Stop it! He can't…"

He stared at her, those beady eyes bright. "Keep talking, and I'll shoot him right in front of you, then shoot you."

She swallowed and watched as he reached out to the hand he hadn't burned and grasped his index finger and yanked it sharply. Sherlock moaned and tried to pull away. He repeated it with his next finger. But still, it didn't wake him. He was shaking with anger now, such anger, and Sally didn't understand why or what was happening. He then took his whole hand, and gripped his forearm to lay it on the arm of the chair, and with all his strength, slammed down on his hand. That woke Sherlock with an agonized scream, and Sally flinched to hear the crunch of bones.

Sherlock stared at his arm, now twisted, bone jutting from the skin and back at the man. His face had returned to the pleasant calm. His jaw worked around the swollen burning mess that was his tongue but he couldn't get anything out past the white blinding pain radiating from the compound fracture of his forearm.

"I'm sorry, lovely, but you wouldn't wake up and I got angry. Here, I'll bandage you up. But remember, it is entirely your fault for refusing to wake up when I called you," he said, and set the bone roughly, getting another scream out of Sherlock, muffled as it was by his swollen mouth.

"Wha dith I do?" he asked, looking at Sally with teary eyes as he walked away to get bandages, she presumed.

"You didn't do anything, Sherlock. He's crazy. You were unconscious," Sally assured, watching for his return. Sherlock stared at the bleeding wound, the bone now back in place, eyes hazed with pain and fear. Blood ran and dripped onto the floor as the skin around it started to turn vivid purpleish black.

"I didth do unythig," he muttered. "Nuffin'."

He came back, and wrapped the wound. Sherlock looked up to see the IV fluids. He smiled, patting the lock in the crook of his burned arm. "Sorry, Doll, you can't eat or drink after you made me hurt your mouth, so I had to do this. Maybe next time you'll remember your mouth. And when I call for you to wake you need to wake up. Understand?"

Sherlock nodded, but realized too late that wasn't enough as his head was snapped to the side several times as he backhanded him repeatedly. The mask of fury was back and Sherlock found himself whimpering at the sight. "Yeth, yeth, du-dah," he said quickly as soon as he stopped hitting him. Tears collected in his eyes and spilled out despite willing them not to. He couldn't deduce a bloody thing about this man!

"Good Doll, good. Now, let me show you how much I love you," he said, ripping the dress's neckline open further.

0000000000000000 Noncon scene 000000000000

Sherlock's breath quickened and he shook his head. He couldn't take this again, not now. His body was wracked with pain and his head was spinning and he was _kissing_ his neck like he was some sort of lover. A strangled sob escaped his lips as he moved one of the shackles and he was put on his back, and somehow, this was worse. He could see him now, every detail of his face. No, he'd rather be on his stomach or side, so he didn't have to see him, then he could distance, forget.

"Pleth, hurth…" he muttered, trying to look away, only to have his head wrenched violently toward him.

"Doll, it is your fault you're hurt. I told you at the outset that I would be gentle and love you, but you've made me do these things, just like the others! I thought you were better, but _you_ still misbehave! So I have to punish you, and sometimes, I get carried away, so I have to love you! Just to make up for my actions…" he said, biting into Sherlock's collarbone harshly.

His hands were under the dress already, lifting his legs up and putting himself between them, rolling the skirts expertly until they rested on his pelvis in a neat fold. It was disturbing that he knew how to handle the dresses like this so well. Then, again, the fingers, and the sting as the already present tears reopened. He blinked back the water that stung his eyes as he felt his hips lifted and the merciless movements under him.

"See, so much better when you get used to it, right?" he said as he snapped his hips forward, and watched as Sherlock keened loudly in the back of his throat, choking on spit and blood from his mouth as his back arched.

He hurt everywhere and he wasn't sure what hurt the worst, but he knew that he nearly blacked out before he was done, and was barely coherent when he finished, which was good because there was nothing in his stomach for him to throw up anyway. He felt the kisses along his jaw and he jerked away from him as the dress was unfolded again. A shiver shot through him as his hand rested on the inside of his thigh for a long moment under the skirt. The top of the dress was torn now, his chest half bare, and one sleeve missing.

00000000000 End Noncon Scene 000000000000

Sally closed her eyes and ignored the sounds. How many times was this bastard going to do this to him? When he was done this time, he stood and she looked to find see him inject Sherlock's bare arm and pat him. "There, now, sleep away until morning, Dolly. You'll wake when I call this time, I know you will, such a quick study," he murmured into Sherlock's ear.

Sally was sick to her stomach as he left again, looking back to see he'd been left in a different position, this time laid out on his back, one shackle over each side of the chair, keeping his arms open and apart. He blearily blinked and turned toward her.

"M'sowwy, S-sally…" he muttered.

"What for? You're the victim here…"

"Hmm, drug ya in wit mah. Sowwy. And can't get ya out b'fer too late…" he said with a sigh.

Sally swallowed. "I guess you're right about that. But then you always are right, aren't you? One cuppa over four days doesn't look too good for the organs, huh?"

"Nah," he muttered and faded into a heavy sleep. "Die first, shoot ya."

She was too exhausted to fight the sleep that crawled into her vision. No, she was not able to fight it.

-The Yard-

It was almost dark when they got the next one. All they could do was stare in disbelief. There was no way to predict the guy.

"He just broke his arm because he was too unconscious to wake up?" Anderson said, frowning, actually looking ill.

Suddenly John held up a hand. "Stop! Pause it!"

He leaned forward. The camera seemed to have shifted somewhat, giving a better view of the high windows. "Zoom there," he said, pointing to the windows. The tech that was with them did that. "Son of a bitch," John muttered, pulling out his phone and running toward the door. "I know where he is!" Anderson and Lestrade were hot on his trail.

It was an hour drive to get there, but as they pulled up in the darkness, they could see faint light illuminating one of the abandoned warehouse's windows. "Has to be it."

Lestrade shook his head. "How did you figure this out?"

He smiled at him. "The windows. We had a case out here once, and I remember Sherlock commenting on the way the windows were made. In fact…" John's eyes went wide. "Oh, my God…no wonder. This was where we busted one of Moriarty's crew for something he'd arranged. This is all about revenge… Come on. We can't wait for Mycroft's people. We have no idea what he has planned, or how long Sherlock can last with the injuries he has."

They took off toward the building. Before long, they were inside, quietly sneaking. They heard the sounds of someone snoring. They followed them. If Lestrade and Anderson decided to leave to go the other way when John opened the door on the sleeping Jaffrey Dalton, no one spoke of it. And if the two men decided to ignore the muffled screams coming from behind them, no one spoke of it either. They most certainly never spoke of the fact that John emerged with his weapon in hand, and his front soaked with blood. In fact, no one ever saw the body after Mycroft came in and made the whole situation disappear with his typical efficiency.

John shucked his bloody jumper and they abandoned their need to sneak because the threat was gone. Jaffrey was no longer a threat. They came into the large room they recognized from the videos, John making a beeline for the chair where Sherlock was slumped, and Anderson running for where Sally sat.

"Sally!" he said. Her head popped up and her eyes were wide.

"Mike?" she asked, looking around at the torchlights. "Is that you?"

"Yeah, we found you," he said, standing up.

"Sherlock…get him help, he's hurt…" she said, looking over.

Anderson nodded. "We know. They…sent us videos from that camera over there," he said, gesturing with the torch to the wall.

She blinked. "Oh God, so you saw what he did…oh God. He…I couldn't do anything! I've never felt so useless! And he…Mike, he did everything he could to make sure he didn't hurt me…I didn't…"

Mike nodded. "I saw, I saw…"

"Even at the first place, Mike, he…the things he said and did…I…" she said. "I have to see him, get these off me," she said, jangling her hands.

John was at a loss. He stood and stared, and there wasn't near enough light. He didn't want to move him. After a minute Sally and Anderson came up beside him and look. She was clinging to him, obviously suffering the effects of dehydration.

"He looks worse up close…" she said softly, reaching out and touching the damp curls on his head in a gesture that was far too loving for Sally Donavan toward Sherlock Holms.

Just then, the room was flooded as the lights were switched on and a pair of paramedics came rushing into the room. John didn't ask, he just set to work getting the shackles off his friend and telling the paramedics where the injuries he knew of were. He suggested they intubate him immediately due to the mouth injury and the high dosage of opiates in his system. John could tell his breathing was labored, and he was glad they found him. He wasn't sure how much longer he could have lasted on the strong dosage of drugs he was receiving with his airway somewhat blocked.

He leaped onto the truck with the paramedics, carefully watching their every move. He tried hard to hold his tongue until he had to yell at one for trying to move the compound fracture without thinking. His army voice certainly got things done when necessary. Before long, they were at St. Barts and in a private ICU. John, no matter how much he wanted, was sent to the waiting room. Anderson and Lestrade were both waiting there already when he came back.

"How's Sally?" he asked, looking up.

"She's going to be fine; they put her on a saline for the dehydration. They're going to keep her overnight to keep an eye on her kidney function," Lestrade said with a deep sigh.

John nodded, ignoring the unspoken question. Lestrade finally couldn't wait the silence any longer. "And Sherlock?"

John swallowed. "He's in surgery. They're going to have to put his arm back together with pins. The ankle the said should heal on its own. We'll see about his hand and his mouth. They've intubated him, of course, and he's on all sorts of tubes. He's in a drug induced coma until they're sure he can breathe on his own. They're worried about the swelling...it had progressed down into his throat by the time we got him in the truck. Now, we wait."

Anderson slumped into one of the two clean plastic chairs with a deep scowl on his face. "I don't understand it, not at all."

John sighed and slumped beside him, running his hand through his own blond hair. "The guy was completely psychotic. No pattern, nothing. Moriarty used him because he was exceedingly easy to manipulate. He's that good. He managed to convince a pedophile to switch MO and kidnap an adult."

Lestrade shook his head and stared at the floor for a long moment. "I'd never believe it if I hadn't seen it."

So they waited. Finally, a nurse came to tell them that Donavan was able to receive visitors. John left the nurse with instructions to come get him from Sally's room if anything changed with Sherlock, and they headed off together.

"Sally," Lestrade said, smiling softly. "How do you feel?"

She smiled. "Loads better after they got me hooked up. How's Sherlock?"

John shifted and shook his head. "Not really sure yet, they're putting his arm back together right now. They've already done what they could for his other hand, and the ankle, and the stitches he needed. But they're worried about his mouth, so he's in a drug induced coma for now."

Sally nodded. "I couldn't believe what he did to him, John. I just…my God. How can someone do that to someone? I mean, he made him say things, and kept holding me over him, threatening to cut me or shoot me, and swearing that he'd let me go if he did what he asked, but he never meant to do it."

John sighed. "He had planned to kidnap me with Sherlock," John said softly. But I was away at the damn conference, so he went for nearest person. I'm sorry, if I'd been there…"

"Nothing would have changed, John. It would have been me looking for you instead of the other way 'round," she said. "I just…I never understood before. I just thought…I assumed…he had no feelings for the victims. But I saw differently. I don't know…but he loves you, John. I don't know that he understands it, but he loves you."

John nodded. "Yeah, I know."

"No, John, I think he _loves_ you," she said, cutting her eyes at him. "I mean, I know we're always joking about you two shagging, but no…there's more to it. I know he was drugged. But there was something there…"

John swallowed hard and blinked. "Oh…" he said softly, and then wandered down to find the coffee again.

He stood before the coffee stand staring at the white Styrofoam cup with the swirling black liquid inside it. What did this mean, really? John had felt so lost while they were looking for Sherlock, like he could hardly breathe until he knew that he was alive. And now he was alive, and here, and safe. But what if he wasn't the same? The same stroppy, brilliant, sarcastic bastard that somehow manages to make the smallest smile mean so much more than anyone else. He scrubbed his hands across his face for the millionth time.

"Mr. Watson?" a voice said.

"Doctor," John corrected, turning to face a nurse.

"Oh, sorry, Dr. Watson, the doctor would like to speak with you. You're the one who will be taking care of him after discharge?" she said with the soft clinical manner.

"I will," he said, following the nurse into Sherlock's room where a tall doctor with blond hair stood looking over the chart. Again, John felt his stomach flip. Once they'd gotten him into the light, it looked so much worse than they thought inside the dim building. His face was covered with bruises, his lip had needed stitches. But what of the rest? He was laying on his right side, his hand with the burn secured with a restraint above his head.

"Dr. Watson, I presume?" he said, looking up.

"That's me, so, what do I need to know?" he asked quietly, realizing his voice was strained.

The doctor nodded. "Considering you're a doctor, surgeon I was told?" John nodded. "Well, you know how some of this works post surgery. His arm was shattered, I'm not really sure how it got broken that way…"

"The guy laid his arm across a chair arm and forced down the hand and wrist until it snapped through the skin," he said distantly, running a hand over the hard cast. He didn't miss the flinch from the doctor.

"Ah, yes, and the ankle is broken, but it was easy enough to cast and should heal normally. His right hand has a second to third degree burn over the palm…almost…" he started.

"Hot plate. He held his hand on a hot plate while the element was red."

He noticed the twitch in the doctor's jaw at the admission. "Yes, well, it may require a skin graft. I'm not sure yet. I'm most worried about the injuries to his mouth and tongue. I hate to ask, but do you know _how_ that happened? I was told, of course, that the situation was kidnapping and torture, but not the details. I am having trouble understanding the injuries to his mouth."

John nodded. "He heated a spatula on the hot plate and forced it into his mouth and held it closed, I'm assuming long enough for the metal to cool."

The doctor just blinked. "That explains the cuts on the inside of his cheeks and the severe burn to the tongue and the roof of the mouth. He was lucky, the swelling from that alone could have killed him within the next twenty four hours. Either that or the massive amounts of opiates we found in his bloodstream. I was told he used to be an addict? You may have trouble over the next two weeks."

John nodded. "I think the drugs will be the least of the problem. How severe was the rest of the trauma from the sexual assaults?"

The doctor swallowed. "Stitching, quite a bit. You said assaults?"

"I think at least three times, though the first was by far the most violent from what we could tell," John said, and caught he look on the doctor's face. "The perpetrator sent videos of the torture to us."

The doctor nodded. "Wow, that's…I'm sorry. Just the injuries alone are bad…"

"He was a serial. Sherlock was the only one we saved. Three others died before this. But he won't hurt anyone again. Not ever," John said with a deep sigh, sweeping hands over the dark curls again. "For once I can't get onto him for putting himself in danger, it came for him. And I couldn't stop it this time."

The next week passed quietly, the sound of the machines was only briefly punctuated by the snores and soft sounds of John shuffling around the room. Of course, he'd been given a private room with a pull out couch. Mycroft had been by, but nothing had changed. The swelling had gone down, but infection was starting to set in, so he was on high doses of antibiotics as well. At the end of the first week, he was taken off the breathing tube finally, doctors having decided that he was okay to breathe on his own. The swelling had gone down enough that Sherlock's mouth was able to stay closed, which was a huge improvement.

Over that time, John came to a lot of realizations. He was a perfectly rational man. He was a doctor, and an army man, and he could be logical, though nowhere near as logical as Sherlock. He thought back to the fact that Sherlock corrected _everyone_ if they were wrong about something. But the one thing Sherlock never corrected was when people assumed they were a couple. Not one time. And Sherlock corrected everyone all the time. Even if they got the slightest detail right. Right down to correcting them about him being a sociopath and not a psychopath. But not when people thought they were together. He sighed. What exactly did that mean?

He thought of the things that Sherlock did for him that he did for no one else. He would apologize. He would think of him. He'd ask him if he'd done something "a bit not good" even. And he'd correct himself. He got grumpy and yelled and insulted, but he never seemed to insult John to the level he did so with others. No, there was something different about the way he acted with John.

"Hey, John," came Lestrade's voice from the doorway. John looked up with weary eyes.

"Oh, Greg. On your way home?" he asked.

"Yeah, Sally came back today. She's helping sort out things for the other three boys on this case. We…didn't think it would be fair to have Sherlock do anything with it, but Sally thought she should do something. Questions came up, but they were dealt with," Lestrade said, looking uncomfortable in the doorway.

"Come, sit down if you have time," John said, glancing at the comatose man beside him.

Lestrade nodded and came to sit beside him in a small chair. "Anything yet?"

John shook his head. "They took the tube out today, and so far he's doing fine on a mask. They're weaning him off the sedation, but they don't expect him to wake for another day or so. And then, we don't know exactly what shape his mind will be in."

"Do they think the drugs will leave any lasting effect?" he asked.

"They think that he should be detoxed of them and past withdrawal by the time he wakes up this time. But we'll have to watch him," he said with a sigh. "The emotional trauma…we don't know. He could wake up and be perfectly fine, and all Sherlock like, or he could be catatonic. Or somewhere in between," John ran a hand through the dark curls as he spoke.

Lestrade nodded. "You know, when he told Sally you saved him, he wasn't kidding. Before you came along…it wasn't pretty, to be honest, John. He changed after you came into his life. He changed a lot in a lot of good ways."

John nodded. "So they really hedge bets on whether we shag in our spare time, huh?"

Lestrade snickered. "Oh yes, there's a pool."

"You've got to be kidding me…" John said, turning eyes on him with a glint to them that had been missing the last two weeks.

"Oh yes, indeed. Everything from secret lovers to shagging in the Yard cloak closest on cases."

"They know I'm not…you know…like that?" he asked, arching a brow at him.

Lestrade smiled gently. "Yeah, and Sherlock doesn't have feelings, mate. He's beautiful, you may as well admit it if your smitten with the bloke. Get it over with."

With that, Lestrade stood with a cracking pop to his back and stood and walked away, leaving John more confused than ever. It wasn't like the thought of being gay bothered him, he was completely fine with Harry and listened at length. And he'd never looked at another man with any sort of attraction whatsoever. But, then, as he looked at the lax face and bouncy dark curls of hair that were far more limp than they should be, he wondered. Was it possible to love someone without considering their transport? He smiled at the thought. Sherlock would be so upset at his transport. But then, it was a lovely transport, if John admitted it to himself.

He fell asleep slumped in the chair, head cradled in his arms as he leaned onto Sherlock's bedside. It was strange, but he felt a crawling sensation on his head. He blinked blearily and realized someone was touching his head. He sat bolt upright, realizing that it was Sherlock's fingertips running in his hair. He looked up and aside from the slight finger movements; there was no other indication of consciousness.

"Sherlock?" he called out. Eyes fluttered under the lids. "Sherlock, it's John, can you wake up for me?" he asked, voice cracking toward the end.

Green-gray eyes fluttered open and were completely unfocused, but open. John smiled, standing and looking down into his face. "Sherlock, hey," he said softly.

"J-John?" he croaked hoarsely. John pulled the nurse call and demanded some ice chips and a cup of water immediately.

Before long he was spooning ice chips into his mouth, a few at a time, both his arms strapped down, wrapped in bandages still. His eyes were still hazy and there was a feeding tube running down his nose behind the oxygen mask. He settled the nasal tube on, and put the mask aside, keeping an eye on the oxygen stats as he did so as he had waited on the nurse to come back.

"There, does that feel better?" John asked, sitting.

"Hurts…tong…" he said, and he could tell he was moving his tongue around awkwardly.

"You remember what happened, Sherlock?" he asked gently, and when the pained expression passed over his normally impassive face he knew he clearly remembered. John then groaned inwardly. He had photographic memory. He would remember every single painful detail with vivid clarity. Part of him desperately hoped that he would have forgotten, that the trauma would have triggered a bout of amnesia. But we were talking about Sherlock.

"Sally?" he ask, his eyes drooping already.

"She's fine, Sherlock. You did a good job. She was in and out of here in no time. Dehydrated, starving, but other than that, she was fine. She's already back at work. You've been here a week now. They were afraid of your breathing because of what he did to your mouth. They had to tube you and put you in a coma," John explained, knowing that he would find these details essential.

He let out a sigh. "Didn't mess that up, guess," he muttered before he fell into a fitful sleep.

John's heart nearly broke at the words. He remembered the things he'd told Sally, about messing things up all the time. And he wondered how often someone had told him things were his fault that were out of his control. He sighed.

Later that day, Donavan and Anderson turned up, surprisingly. She had brought a bouquet of wildflowers and sat them on the table, startling John awake from a light doze.

"Oi!" he exclaimed, sitting up, startling both the newcomers. "Oh, sorry, startled me."

Sally looked nervous, and Anderson stayed toward the doorway. "Yah, just wanted to see how he was, Lestrade said you texted to say he woke up a little this morning."

"Yeah, let's see if we can't get a repeat performance, he was asking after you."

Despite what she'd endured by the consulting detective's side, she felt her stomach clench at the thought he was still worried about what happened to her. John leaned over and gently shook Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock?" he queried close to his ear. "Wake up, Sally and Mike came to see you, should at least say hi, okay Sherlock?"

His eyes immediately began to flutter at John's voice and then blearily blinked open. He looked around and saw John above him.

"J-john…go home…sleep, m'fine," he said, his voice still rough.

"Nope, come on, I have more ice chips for your throat," he said, carefully shoveling a few into his mouth.

"Hey, Sherlock," Sally said from the side of the bed, bringing his eyes to focus hazily on her.

"Sal-ly…" he said, giving her a soft grin. "John said yer better. Good."

She swallowed, looking back at Anderson. "Sherlock, I…can you tell me why?"

Sherlock looked completely confused. "Why?" he asked finally after a long moment.

"Look, after all the crap we," she indicated her and Anderson, "have put you through, the insults, put downs, everything…I mean I've practically called you a murderer in training and worse…and you did everything you could to protect me from getting hurt. Surely there was some reason behind it that I'm missing, Sherlock. I just…I don't understand. There had to be some deduction or thing you figured out to make you act that way."

Sherlock still looked confused. "Why…" he said quietly, looking away. His voice still had a muzzy and fuzzy edge to it from the pain killers and the sedation that was wearing off completely now. "I…it's all I have." He said at length. "Selfish, to keep people safe, for me," he said quietly. "Nothing I could have done was gonna save us. He was going to kill us both, figured that the first day. It didn't matter, in the end, except to…to prolong it. Wh-when he broke my arm, I knew I w-would die from it, and…I thought at least you'd die fast…a bullet was better than dehydration, it wouldn't have been long. Didn't want you to go through that…but I couldn't let him kill you…I didn't…didn't wanna see it…I…" His eyes were starting to flutter again.

"Sherlock?" John asked. "You okay?"

He swallowed. "Ice?" he asked. John picked up the cup and fed him more ice chips as the other two occupants just stared at each other.

Sherlock laid there for a while. "Thanks, John," he said with a sigh and everyone couldn't believe their ears. Sherlock. _Thanking._ "Thanks for it all…"


	5. John

Consciousness was seemingly elusive to Sherlock. It was coming in snatches and bits and pieces, but he couldn't hold onto it. Now, instead of having his mind palace blocked from him, he was trapped inside it, trapped with the memories that he couldn't file away and delete. To put it mildly, it was frustration incarnate. He was going to go out of his mind if he didn't come to consciousness soon. Logically, he knew what the problem was. He was in a drug induced coma. Of course he was, because if he were still with that…man…he wouldn't be unconscious for this long. The break in his arm proved that. No, despite unconsciousness, Sherlock felt the passage of time. Of course he would. No one else did, but he felt it. And it was more than anything frankly frightening. Part of him wanted to question if the state was permanent. But he tried to reason out of that. The swelling he'd felt in his mouth was enough to keep him from being awake. Still, there was a fear that he'd never wake up and he'd never see his John again.

Of course, the first things he heard were John's words. He couldn't tell if they were real or memories, though. Then, he woke to see John's face and he felt the world crashing down for several reasons. John knew. How could he be sitting here knowing what had happened to him in that room? How could he ever look at him again without disgust? Sherlock felt the constriction when he asked if he remembered what happened. Oh he wanted to go back to sleep, slip away into the inner world so he didn't have to think. But that was a fallacy because Sherlock Holms never went without thinking. So it was inner turmoil once more.

Sally Donavan and Mike Anderson visiting was a surprise all on its own, but John waking him in his still drugged up state to have them ask him the dumbest questions was more of a surprise. Didn't John know these things already? He talked, but after he did he didn't remember much. Whatever they were giving him for pain was quite good at blurring his head right now. Everything while he was with him was clear as a bell, but since his eyes opened here, things were fuzzy. He knew they wouldn't be narcotics, so he imagined it was Stadol or something similar. He'd honestly had enough opiates to last a lifetime officially.

So it was that the first thing that made John realize that Sherlock was decidedly _not_ alright was the fact he didn't ask to go home. In fact, he barely spoke unless spoken to. He didn't berate the nurses, he didn't deduce anyone into annoyance so they'd let him leave, and when Mycroft came he ignored him (which was normal). He lay there, looking far too small for a man of his size, as the nurses fretted over him, and then John slowly noticed the beginnings of what he'd feared. It was somewhat refreshing to know that Sherlock was just as human as the rest of the world, but it made him ache to see the signs of PTSD starting to show on his friend. John dealt with it, but Sherlock, he shouldn't be dealing with PTSD, and most certainly should not be dealing specifically with rape trauma syndrome (RTS). No, he should not at all be dealing with these things.

"He will be going home this week," the psychiatrist, a very nice woman named Dr. Naomi Sellers, said to John as they stood outside the room. "I understand you suffer from PTSD from your time in Afghanistan. So you are aware of a lot of what may happen over the next few weeks. He's still acute, so be prepared. He appears to be in a controlled state, but I'm going to give you some anti-anxiety medication in case he has begins to suffer flashbacks or the other anxiety based symptoms. One thing I should warn you about, men who have suffered this kind of assault typically become aggressive. So be prepared. I've included some sedatives in his medications, of course; only use them if you need to because of his past chemical dependence. I understand that he is highly intelligent?"

John snorted. "That's an understatement. I'm surprised that he isn't making the nursing staff's life miserable right now by telling them all how their life is and whose partner is cheating on them."

"This will be harder on him, in that case, Dr. Watson. My patients with the most difficulty adjusting are those with higher intelligences. They tend to overanalyze things. And considering his past history of self-harm, you need to be hyperaware of what he does. You do realize he had recent evidence of cutting?" she asked.

"I knew about his past, with his arms, but I believe when I discovered it, he moved location. I should have noticed it sooner, but he is quite good at deception. The current case involved young boys being raped, and I think it triggered his past history of sexual assault at a similar age. In the end, he was kidnapped by the same person he was tracking…" John scrubbed his hands over his face.

Dr. Sellers nodded. "Were you aware of his past experience?"

John shook his head. "He'd locked it away, and the only sign was he has been completely asexual in the time I've known him. He's used his appearance to get information from both men and women, but he's never indicated actual interest."

"Was he ever put into therapy after the childhood trauma?" she asked, looking at her notes.

"No, he refused, and as an adult he's never felt the need."

She nodded. "Expect changes. He may continue to pull away from sexual contact, or he may change completely and seek it to the point of having dangerous relations with others. Sexual orientation confusion is especially common with male assault victims."

John nodded, knowing that the next few weeks would be extremely hard, on both of them. But the idea of Sherlock of all people, going out and seeking sex from strangers was so foreign that he couldn't really even quantify the idea. He bit the doctor farewell and went back in where Sherlock was, surprisingly, awake. He wasn't under sedation or enough drugs to make him that sleepy, but he was sleeping at least eighteen hours of the day. For a man that practically never slept, that was also a telling symptom. But by far scariest was the fact that he hadn't deduced anything, even for John.

"Hey, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" he asked with a completely fake smile that should not have fooled Sherlock for a moment.

He shrugged, picking at the cast on his arm gingerly with the bandaged hand on his other arm. John sighed. "They say you can go home day after tomorrow. Mrs. Hudson will be glad to see you home instead of having to come by here."

He nodded, absently, laying back and closing his eyes again. "So, when we get home, how long before you get bored?" John asked, hoping for anything at all.

Again, he got a shrug. "M'tired, John. Talk later," he said to him and John sighed, nodding.

"Okay, Sherlock, you sleep. You'll get better sooner. While you sleep I'll go get a coffee in the cafeteria. I'll be back though."

Nothing, so John got up and left to go to the cafeteria. On the way, he ran into Lestrade. "Hey, Greg, was going down for coffee, he's sleeping again, so you want to come with me?" John asked hopefully. He really needed to interact with another human being.

They sat in silence for a while. "So, how's he doing?" Greg finally asked.

"I don't know, Greg. He's distant, doesn't talk, hell he hasn't deduced anything since he came out of the coma. Something's going on, and he's escaping from it. He obviously doesn't want to deal with anything, but he's going to have to," John said, staring at the wannabe cappuccino.

Greg nodded, staring at his own black coffee. "Anything we can do?"

"I don't know, but I'm scared that the man we knew was left in that warehouse. I've seen it happen, not exactly the same I know, but so many came back from the Middle East and never recovered some part of themselves. I don't want to see that happen to Sherlock. He's too…too…important to me," John said with a heavy sigh.

"I know, but have you told him that?" Greg asked slowly.

"Would it matter right now? I mean, I don't want him to think I expect anything from him, you know, not after this, he might not ever recover from it…to even have a relationship with another person," John said, looking around at the bustling of the people around him.

"I think it matters. Especially since you don't expect anything from him. You need to prove to him that what that bastard did wasn't right, what he said wasn't true. You heard how he degraded him…John, he's not immune to the things he did. In fact, he may be more affected because of how smart he is. I mean, damn, John, can you imagine…" Lestrade's eyes looked far away for a minute before he came back. "I can't. I mean, to be put in that position. It's beyond anything I can comprehend."

John nodded. "I know. It…it insults everything he is at the core. Add to that the fact that no one, not even Sherlock, could predict his behavior. You saw the shock in his face every time he flipped and did something different. That was enough."

"Remember, he's dealing with the childhood trauma too, something he never did," Lestrade said with a sigh. "He's not dealing with this, but he might have some problems distinguishing his own father and this guy because he tried to imitate a father figure."

John nodded. "God, I don't know how I'm going to deal with this. I have a vacation I took for the next two weeks. I just hope he gets through the first part of this by then…"

"If not, my brother does have a trust fund I can assign to you for the time being," came Mycroft's voice entirely too close.

"Shit, Mycroft!" John exclaimed. "Warn a bloke!"

"Sorry, you were just into your conversation and I did not wish to interrupt. The offer is genuine. I know my brother will be…difficult. But I do not wish for you to get behind in your bills. The best place for him to recover is with you in Baker Street, though part of me wishes he would let me help," Mycroft said, fiddling with his umbrella handle and looking decidedly away.

John nodded. "Maybe he will, Mycroft. Just give him some time. You saw what he's been through."

"That's what has me worried, John. Just…take care of him."

Before John blinked, it seemed he was signing the paperwork to check Sherlock out and take him home. He didn't even complain about the wheelchair, which was a good thing, because with his ankle still in plaster and his only good hand being one with a broken forearm, he wasn't capable of much movement on his own. The black cab deposited them outside Baker St and John asked him to wait a moment so he could get Sherlock situated and come back for the chair and crutches he would be able to use eventually.

Getting up the stairs to the couch was interesting, but they managed. John expected at least one insult along the way, instead he got nothing, only silence. And that was perhaps so much worse. He went down and got the chair and bags from the cabbie, paying him and sending him on his way. He gave a knock to Ms. Hudson's door and then raced up the stairs to make sure Sherlock was okay. He sat staring out the window as snow began to fall outside. Typical London winter, John thought.

"All set, Sherlock. Need anything?" John asked softly.

Sherlock's eyes were still locked on the window as he shook his head. "Right, then, I'll get myself a cuppa, certainly need it after all that awful coffee at the hospital."

A few minutes later, Ms. Hudson came up and fussed over Sherlock, which he allowed, but didn't respond to in the least. A nod here, a shake there, but nothing else. John brought him a mug of tea, which he stared at for a long time before he accepted it. John was well aware that giving Sherlock a cup that looked anything like those he'd been forced to drink out of for that man would end in disaster, so he'd opted for a mug with the London Underground on it.

Ms. Hudson grabbed John's arm as she left. "He's not alright, is he?"

John swallowed and shook his head. "Not at all." She merely nodded and left.

And so John was left with a strangely silent Sherlock, and after another couple days, the doctor was at his wit's end. He asked Ms. Hudson to come sit with him for a while so he could run to the pub. She was agreeable and he did just that. Until a text came through on his phone during his second beer.

_Alone so soon. Do you think that's safe, Jawn? –JM_

John paid the tab and headed back immediately, grumbling in anger at Moriarty and his mind games. He went upstairs to find things just as he left them, Sherlock plucking absently on his violin staring into space and Ms. Hudson having tea at the living room. He swallowed and smiled them as he went up to his room for a bit.

 _Message from M when I stepped out for a bit. He's watching the flat.-JW_ he shot off in text message to Mycroft. He hated to do it but he wanted all the help he could get. If something happened to Sherlock now, before he'd even begun to heal, the damage would possibly be permanent.

 _Understood. – MH_ came the quick reply.

John headed down and let Ms. Hudson head back to her own flat. He then had enough and went to sit across from Sherlock.

"Okay, this may be wrong, but I've had it," John said, crossing his arms and staring at the detective as strongly as he dared.

Sherlock turned his head and a frown creased his brow briefly.

"Okay, this is exactly it. This is more than a bit not good, Sherlock. You are Sherlock Holms and you most certainly do not refrain from insulting the idiocy you are surrounded with on a daily basis, because face it, everyone is an idiot compared to you. I've thought up loads of insults in my head for the gits at hospital and you've ignored them. And I'm really missing my Sherlock," John said the last with a sigh, hoping beyond hope he wasn't overstepping his bounds.

He got a look, a real look, from Sherlock at that. Well, that was something, a reaction, at least. "Now, you've been sleeping a lot but not dreaming that I've seen. You sit and stare at the window all day, and you haven't looked at the files Lestrade brought by. I don't like this. You are still you, Sherlock. Every bit of you, even if you don't know it right now. And I want you back, I can't help it, because I'm being fucking selfish about it. I miss you."

Sherlock honestly didn't understand. For once in his life, Sherlock was confused so badly that he didn't know what to say. He was at an utter and complete loss for words. And he felt on the edge of crying. And that, he most definitely didn't do. Not since he was a child. Not since that night. That night, seared into his memory forever. And he couldn't delete it, instead he'd filed it away in the deepest recesses of his mind palace and never went there again but no it was there, right in front of him, the face of that…man…blending and mixing with his father's face.

"I'm sorry, John," he said finally. "I…I'm lost."

John blinked in surprise then went to sit beside him, not daring to touch him. He'd become very haptaphobic in the hospital toward the end, only allowing the female nurses anywhere near touching him. The few times a male nurse had come in, John had to gently tell him that he needed to send in a female. The reaction wasn't startling, mostly because John was there, but the signs of a panic attack would begin the second a man touched his skin.

"Then, Sherlock, let me help you. I want to help you. Will you let me?" John asked, softly now.

Sherlock swallowed and looked upward, and John caught the glistening of tears in his lovely silvery eyes. "It was too much. The drugs…they messed with me so much, John, I couldn't _think_ and I knew beyond a doubt…if I could think I could get us out. I…I couldn't even predict what he was going to do…"

"Sherlock, even you, without the drugs, couldn't have predicted him. He was completely insane," John assured.

Sherlock nodded, staring at the violin in his lap. "But…but if anyone could have, it was me…but then he…he made those demands. And wanted to know about the Incident. And that was too much, I had the Incident filed away, and he opened it up and I couldn't see him, I saw someone else…"

"The Incident?" asked John. "When your father hurt you. Why don't you tell me what happened then? Maybe it will help."

Sherlock nodded, and looked at John. "I didn't tell him. I couldn't, not really, and it made him angry. I think…I think he enjoyed hearing what the other victim's fathers had done, that was part of the game, I think, and he was angry I didn't play that part…" Sherlock's voice was low as he plucked strings as he spoke.

"Then, tell me, and then you'll have given up the thing he wanted to me instead," John said, hand reaching out, wondering if he could touch him.

Sherlock reached out without looking and took John's hand in his own, relishing the warmth from the contact. His arm still ached, but the light plaster was above his wrist now. "You…you won't think…differently? Of me?" he asked, and John's heart nearly broke at the positively broken sound in his voice that didn't belong in this man's voice, ever.

"Sherlock, no, never."

He nodded. "I remember he hit Mycroft once, and Mummy was so angry and it was just after that he went off to school. He was like me, at Uni early. But then, he would get mad at me more when Mycroft was gone. I used to hide a lot. And even then, I couldn't keep my mouth shut. And that night, I was ten, and he'd been drinking bourbon in the study. I didn't know what was wrong, but there was something…"

_The smell of rain was heavy as the young Sherlock fiddled with a petri dish in his room. He smiled, seeing that the experiment was going well. He heard footsteps and hid it in his closet quickly. He didn't need his father to catch him again. Mummy was gone to the city with Mycroft for the weekend. Sherlock hadn't gone, claiming it was dreadfully boring to be cooped up in a dorm room with his brother and his stuffy friends. But really, he was staying to complete the experiment he'd been working on. By Sunday morning, it would be finished and if he didn't record the results, he'd have to repeat the whole thing. It was hard enough to do the first time without being caught, he didn't want to take the chance again._

_"Sherlock?" came the alcohol roughened voice of his father. He ran out and looked in the hall to see him clutching a bottle of expensive bourbon._

_"Yes, Father?" he said, trying to be polite. His father got violent when he was drinking._

_"Comere," he slurred and went toward the study. Sherlock didn't want to do it because he knew he was going to regret it, but his tone left no room for him to disobey._

_He entered the study where his father had sat at the desk, feet up on top of it, drinking straight from the bottle of bourbon._

_"What do you need, Father?" Sherlock asked, his stomach tight. He hated dealing with drunks more than anything else. Unpredictable. That was why he hated it. His father wasn't the easiest to read at the best of times, and when drunk, his masks and shields were gone completely. Sherlock was fascinated by the way alcohol often revealed hidden desires and wants._

_"Comere, boy," he said roughly, dropping feet down, and slamming the bottle onto the table._

_Sherlock swallowed and went over toward him. He stared for a long time before he reached out and ran a hand tenderly through his hair. A chill shot through the boy's spine. A sign of affection? From his father? Maybe this wasn't a bad thing. He was a child, and approval and love from his father would be welcome._

_"Ya know, boy, I love ya, and yer brother. Never say it, but I do," and Sherlock smiled at him. He really did, because hearing those words was a miracle._

_Then, of course, the moment was broken when the hand on his head gripped tightly and yanked him harshly forward until he stumbled into his father's lap. He gasped as he was sat on his lap, eyes wide. He'd never sat on his father's lap, and it felt strange to do so now._

_"F-father?" he asked, and there was another harsh tug to his hair that he responded with a yelp. "F-father, that hurts!"_

_"Oh, does it?" he asked, yanking harder, this time bringing tears to the boy's eyes._

_"Stop, please, Father," he begged but then he was shoved off the lap he was sitting on to land in a heap on the floor._

_He caught his breath, mostly shocked until he felt his father's foot connect with his side. He screamed then, feeling the bone crunch under the power of the kick. He didn't understand what he'd done, what had brought this on. He turned to his back, receiving another kick for his effort as his father fell to the floor, kneeling over him now, and struck out hard, and he felt fire blossom in his face and figured his orbital was definitely hurt somehow._

_He was so absorbed in his own pain that he didn't hear the study door open and the gasped surprise from one of the maids as she quickly shut the door and ran off to call the Mistress of the house. She knew better than to interfere, but she couldn't allow a child to be hurt. So she dialed frantically and detailed what was happening._

_Before he knew what was happening, he was lifted up under his shoulders and slammed down onto the desk, his ribs screaming, or was that him screaming? He didn't know what he was saying, but he felt hot breath on his neck and in his ear._

_"Yer always teasin' yer dad, ya know," he said. "Pretty little boy, shoulda beena girl, ya know. So let's see if ya make a good lil slut like I think ya will," he growled, bourbon soaked breath nearly choking the boy so much that the fact he was missing half his clothes failed to dawn on him._

_Sherlock was stunned into silence as he was pressed hard into the desk by the weight on his back. His ribs were throbbing, and his feet were well off the floor. He stared at the desk, there was paperwork, some sort of lawsuit with his father as the defendant. He supposed that explained the drinking… His thoughts slammed to a close when he felt something against his backside. His eyes went wide and he started to struggle, only to have his head yanked up by the hair and slammed into the desk with dizzying effect, blood blossoming from his nose and stars flittering across his vision._

_If his scream before had been loud, the one that followed was deafening to his own ears. He felt the thick run of blood and he was crying then, both pain and fear and everything else, as his father clamped one hand over his mouth tightly, nearly cutting off his airflow. Soon he was dizzy from the small amount of oxygen, and his struggles had ceased. Finally, he was sliding bonelessly off the desk to the floor, his father backing up. He heard voices around him, but he didn't recognize them. Was someone saying his name? He wasn't sure._

_"Sherlock!" came Mummy's voice. He looked up through teary eyes and promptly passed out. Blood loss, he thought as he slid from the world. Blood loss and a concussion maybe._

Sherlock was staring at his bandaged hand when he finished. He'd never told anyone what had happened that night, not even his mummy or Mycroft. He looked over to see John's face, thinking how disgusted he had to be.

"Thank you," John said, squeezing his hand, and when Sherlock's face turned confused. "Thank you for sharing that with me, I know you've never told anyone about that night, and I'm glad you trust me enough."

Sherlock was fighting with himself. His logical mind was screaming at him to quit acting like this, that of course John wouldn't change his opinion just because he was raped at ten years of age by his own father. But the other part, a buried part, was screaming about how horribly dirty he'd been made, and then again recently it returned.

"You…you don't…think…I'm…" he started, unable to say the words he needed to say. "You're not disgusted by me?"

John's face twisted in disbelief and hapnophobia or not, he yanked his friend into his arms to hug him tightly. There was a brief moment of stiffness that melted away.

"Sherlock, you mean more to me than you'll ever know, and nothing changes that. I want to help you get through this. I love you, you bloody git," John figured why not go the whole route.

He felt his arms come around him, and Sherlock buried his face in his shoulder, and then something amazing happened. Amazing to John Watson, anyway. He felt his shirt growing wet. He was startled for a second when he realized Sherlock was crying. Quietly, but crying nonetheless. He pulled him into a tighter embrace and ran hands over his too thin back in soothing circles. He whispered nonsense to him, as those long fingered hands gripped him desperately.

"I…I never knew…what I did…wrong," he gasped out at one point. "Not then…not now…"

"Sherlock, you were a child then, he had no right, no matter what you did or didn't do, and this Dalton bastard, he never had any right or reason to do what he did. I saw, and you did what you could do to stop him from hurting Sally. Please, Sherlock, remember that, she's alive because of you. You sacrificed your own pride for her safety. She knows it, I know it, we all know it, Sherlock," he said gently, one hand running over those dark curls.

They sat like that long after dark, John murmuring assurances to a consulting detective who cried like a ten year old child in his arms. Because that was one of the problems. That ten year old boy had never cried on someone, had never let out the pain and frustration that came with being hurt so terribly by someone who he should have been able to trust. It was after midnight when John noticed that Sherlock had fallen into a deep sleep against him. He sighed and wondered if he could manage to get him into a bed. Well, perhaps. Perhaps not. But he definitely wasn't going to like sleeping like this all night…

So, John twisted up his courage and managed to pick the taller man up into a bridal carry, which absolutely amazed him, but reminded him keenly how thin he was for his frame. He dropped him into the bed, but he barely moved at the motion. He tucked him into the bed but before he could move away, a hand was gripping his wrist tightly. He looked down into hazy eyes.

"Can you stay with me?" he asked softly and John nodded.

"Of course, Sherlock."

He settled in beside him, and found himself suddenly wrapped with four long limbs, slightly surprising him. A murmured thanks as the half asleep detective returned to his own oblivion. John got comfortable, off his bad shoulder, and pulled the lanky, too skinny man closer to him. Was this a good thing? Or a bad? John wasn't sure. He'd told him what was perhaps his darkest secret, one that his family desperately had tried to erase like it was some sort of accident. And again John was brought to the wonder of how a family could do that. Take a child who had been hurt so badly and then ignore the entire event because it would be bad press. It made him slightly sick to his stomach to think about it.

One thing stuck out, though, that he wondered if it would come up again. His father had told him he should have been a girl, and Dalton had proceeded to dress and treat him like one. Sherlock had never had issues with his own gender…or had he? John was confused now. Was asexuality simply a way to avoid his own internal struggle? John knew him well enough to know that was likely. And now, he was face to face, once again with the pain and unknowing, and everything was mixed up.

Eventually he fell asleep thinking about these things. The thrashing beside him woke him, however, and a glance at the clock said it was almost five in the morning. Sherlock had rolled to the other side, and was fighting invisible attackers, it was obvious, muttering in his sleep for them to stop. John recognized the nightmares too well. He put a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him that it was alright, that he was here, that no one was going to hurt him while John was beside him. It seemed to calm him, and he rolled and put John into a crushing embrace, as though afraid he would escape and leave him.

"Mm, Don leave me, John," he muttered.

"I'll never leave, Sherlock, even if you tell me to leave," he whispered to the sleeping man.

It was after eleven when the sunlight finally brought John from his slumber. And he had to pee. And Sherlock's long leg was wrapped over his body right on top of his straining bladder. In fact, he was pretty sure that Sherlock had him in a better body lock than any wrestler in the history of wrestling. One leg over his midsection, hooked under his hip, the other wrapped around his leg, one arm over his chest and the other under his head crooked and resting on his shoulder. Good lord, this man had long limbs, he thought for the thousandth time. Of course, this was the first time he had them wrapped around him like this. But as wrapped as he was, he had to pee. Badly.

"Sherlock?" he said softly, reaching over to shake his shoulder. "Hey, Sherlock, I really need to piss, but…"

Gray-green eyes fluttered open to stare at him in confusion. He blinked, his eyes felt swollen and puffy, like he'd cried himself to sleep, and then he remembered, that's exactly what he'd done, and he'd asked John to stay in bed with him. He swallowed thickly and stared for a long moment.

"Um…" he started, and John smiled, leaning over to place a kiss on his forehead. The detective flushed pink immediately at the kind gesture.

"Shh, Sherlock. Shh. I'd stay here like this all day, but I'm afraid I've gotta piss."

Sherlock frowned and nodded, not really understanding what John was talking about. "Okay…" he said, his mind blurry from sleep still.

"So…I need you to disentangle yourself, Sherlock," he said, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Sherlock frowned then looked at the absolute tangled heap he'd managed to make out of their limbs during the night. "Oh…" he muttered softly and began pulling away, twinging at the stiffness in his muscles from the strange position he'd put himself in with John. With _John._

John got up and patted his plaster as he got up leaving Sherlock absolutely confused. He'd been confused since he woke up in that basement, and he was sure the feeling wasn't going away anytime soon.

John sighed as he washed his face quickly with a rag, and picked another and wrung out warm water to clear Sherlock's face. He returned to find him exactly as he'd left him, looking after him with a dazed look. John sat down and sighed and began to wash his flatmate's face gently with the warm rag. He jerked at first, but then seemed to be willing to let him wash away the crusted salty tear tracks, and rub away the sleepy gunk from his eyes.

"There, now, is that better?" John asked, softly.

Sherlock nodded. "I…thank you, John. F-for last night, for this…for not…leaving."

"Sherlock, why would I leave?" John asked, moving to sit beside him.

"After what you saw…what he did…I'm not anything anymore. I can't…I can't even think straight. I can't even begin to put two thoughts together, and every time I close my eyes _he's_ there. And then I just think I'm going to explode but I can't because…because…I don't know," he said, his eyes dropping. "And I never don't know."

John swallowed, and then grabbed him and held him against him again, though he didn't cry this time, he felt the tension evaporate. "Sherlock, please, listen to what I'm going to say right this minute. I love you, you bloody idiot, and I don't care if you can't ever deduce the color of my underpants for the rest of your life. I don't care if you have to sleep wrapped around me for the rest of my life if it helps you I'll do it. I don't care if you cry on me. I _don't care._ I will be here, for it all. I'll stay while you insult me, while you yell, whatever it takes. I sat there, watching you and I came to a lot of conclusions. The biggest of which is my life would be much poorer without your presence, and I'll take you by my side no matter your condition. I don't expect anything, Sherlock. I just want to be here for you. Whatever you need, I want…I want to be the one there for you."

Sherlock's brain had short circuited again (okay this was beginning to be a bloody annoying habit, he told his brain). He couldn't say anything, he just wrapped his bony hands around him and pressed his face into the hollow of his neck and breathed in _John_ and felt better. John, who had watched everything, who knew everything, and hadn't run away. John, who had let him cry, which he never did. John, who had already become his whole world, and now was beginning to become even more central to it. _John._

"P-please…John," he whispered finally. "D-don't say that if you don't mean it, please, I've…never let anyone…ever…in…and…I might just give up…if you leave after saying that…please…"

John just pulled him tighter. "Sherlock, I wouldn't say it if it wasn't true. You mean everything to me. The worst thing ever was watching you be hurt and not being able to stop it. I can't tell you how much I ached to reach out and take you from him, but I couldn't bloody find him fast enough, Sherlock, and it nearly killed me."

"I…I don't know what I can give you…John…" he said softly. "I can't…I'm not like other people. I don't…know about these feelings…I've locked them away so long…"

"Shh," John whispered, running soothing hands over his back, flinching a bit at the ridged wounds from the crop near the small of his back still. "Look, I know, I bloody well know, Sherlock, just…just let me be here. I can take it. And I know a little about what's going to happen, I still have nightmares, remember?"

Sherlock nodded slowly into the crook of his neck. "Okay," he said simply.

Time passed as he sat there in John's arms, but for once his mind was quiet. No thoughts, only blissful silence filled the spaces. Finally he swallowed and sat up.

"Maybe I could look at those files today," he said finally and John smiled wide at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments, Kudos and recommendations recommended. I am American, so please forgive any Americanisms I have put in by mistake, please Britpick you you have any slang or things to be said typical for the characters.
> 
> I have five more chapters planned, but I have to get all my others updated. This is on FF . net as well, but I cross post everything these days. Paranoid. :) Again, Thanks.


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